Blind Eye
                                 - F. Lynn Godfriaux

George Digby Lamont blinked, but his vision wouldn’t clear. His chest felt heavy, and butterflies fluttered around his
heart. He glanced over to his wife, Ginnie, who seemed lost in thought as she gazed out the passenger window of
their Land Rover.

Should he say anything? Pull over? Find an emergency facility?

He returned his attention to the two-lane highway, tried to focus. Flat, empty, brown Kansas prairie spread under
expansive blue sky. The midday late March sun held no warmth. He felt fine this morning when they started their trip
to visit Mattie in Colorado. And though in his sixties, he’d never had heart-related problems.

He heard Ginne moan and turned his head in time to see her slump into an unnatural position. Her color looked awful.

“Ginnie?” His voice sounded distant. He caught a whiff of the sweet pickles he and his wife had been eating, felt his
head begin to spin, then heard the heavy blast of a truck horn.
Screeching tires, exploding glass, and impacting steel ripped the afternoon air as the oncoming eighteen-wheeler
slammed head-on into the careening Land Rover.


I can’t believe this.

The thought became a boulder that took up all the room in my chest, then rolled slowly, painfully downward into my
stomach. I gazed through the tinted glass of the long, black limousine, wondered how everything outside could be
light and normal, when everything inside me had become dark and strange.

The limousine crawled down Main Street in Shawnee, the small Oklahoma town where my sister Angela and I had
spent our youth, where our parents had raised us with love, gentleness, and joy. It seemed as though every car in
town joined the slow procession to the cemetery. Jeremiah, my husband of almost seven years, slipped an arm around
my shoulders, pulling me close. His warm, solid body enveloped mine, and I leaned into the black leather jacket he
wore and wished he could lift the boulder away from my heart. Angela, motionless within the folds of her knee-length
coat, huddled against the opposite window. Long, thick, chocolate brown hair hid her pale face, but I knew her
expression held the same shocked desolation as my own.

My only recollection of our parents’ graveside service was the March wind that lashed through my outer protection
and froze the boulder into a massive chunk of ice. Consoling voices grated like nails on a chalkboard as Jeremiah’s
gentle hands guided Angela and me back to the long, black car. Black, like the void that sucked me into a pit never to
let me out again. Black tires crunched, crawled down thin, black pavement, the end of the awful trip no better than the
beginning, as we pulled up alongside the front staircase of our parents’ estate.

As we drifted to a halt, a man wearing a black wool overcoat appeared from the endless line of parked cars and strode
to the left rear passenger door. He reached for the handle when the limo doors unlocked, opened Angela’s door, and
leaned down.

“My poor, dear Angela, come with me.” Avoiding eye contact with both Jeremiah and myself, he helped my sister
from the car. The collar of his heavy coat hid most of the strange man’s face, so I didn’t get a clear look at him, but I
felt Jeremiah tense. The stranger wrapped a protective arm around my sister then slammed the door shut. I watched
through the tinted glass as he steered her away and wondered how he had known which side Angela was on.

“Who was that?” I asked as Jeremiah rose from the car, then steadied me as I stood next to him.

“I think it prudent we find out.” The curtness in his voice startled me. His eyes narrowed on the two figures
ascending the broad steps that led to the front entrance.

My husband, Jeremiah Black Bear Tyler, a full-blood Southern Ute, stood slightly over six feet and had the build of a
distance runner. He rarely answered questions, listened more than he talked. He did not use contractions, a
characteristic which made his personality seem formal.

Jeremiah arm slipped around my shoulders and pulled me close, protecting me from the sharp, vicious, stinging wind
as we climbed the stairs to the house I had called home for most of my twenty-eight years.

William, Mom and Dad’s butler for as long as I could remember, met us just inside the front entrance. The aged, bent
little man hugged me with surprising strength. Flowers and potted plants crowded the large entryway, leaving only a
narrow path along the broad, hardwood floor. Living, moving bodies of friends, colleagues, and strangers crowded
the large room to our left. I didn’t want to talk to any of them, so I stood there and stared at the plants.

William’s pink, shiny bald head nodded towards the sea of colors. “Anna and I will see to these, Miss Mattie. Don’t
you worry.” He ducked his head from my stare, but not before I saw the wetness on his face. He took our coats, and
Jeremiah coaxed me into the throng. Muted sounds of familiar music whisked me away from present torment and life
became normal as I slid into a fog of memories.

My father, George Digby Lamont, born into southern wealth, left Alabama to pursue degrees in piano. He met Mom
when he had attended her doctoral piano recital. Together they had devoted their lives to university and private
teaching, local and regional performing, and raising and loving Angela and me. Music had echoed through this house
thoughout my youth, and every time Jeremiah and I came for a visit after we married and moved to Colorado. It had
been wonderful, warm, welcoming, sharing their love of life with every strain.

Gut-ripping truth forced itself back into my thoughts. Mom and Dad were gone, and it was someone else’s music that
filled the house now, sounding tinny, contrived. It grated on my ears, and I wanted them to stop it and leave. I wanted
everyone to stop whatever they were doing and leave. Mom and Dad, Grandpa George, Uncle Bernard, all of them
dead within the last three years. Too much death, too many loving people taken away from me too soon.

Bodies overflowed every room, engaged in a muted cacophony of conversations and music. Waiters in crimson and
cream maneuvered their way through the crowd, balancing trays of wine and finger foods. Smiling (I hoped politely),
I acknowledged well-wishers and looked around for my sister. We entered the large dining room that adjoined the
front room. Renovated hardwood flooring contrasted warmly with deep green, floor-to-ceiling drapes and tall, old-
fashioned windows. Tall ceilings added grandness, made the room seem spacious despite the crowd. I caught sight of
Angela and the stranger standing against the opposite wall of the entrance. Jeremiah paused, and I stopped and leaned
into him, then watched the stranger lean down and place a kiss on the top of my sister’s long, dark hair. He seemed
about my height, which neared five feet ten inches. He looked stocky, muscular rather than fat, and his thin, dark,
crudely cut hair threw his features out of balance. Thick glasses made his eyes too small for the rest of his clean-
shaven, acne-scarred face. I didn’t like the way his eyes shifted about, ignoring whoever was talking with him. The
dark, expensive, three-piece suit he wore appeared custom-tailored, but for some reason I felt that his attire did not
match his personality. Maybe it was the scarring on his face. Once again I was forming a prejudice based on looks.
My photographic nature, seeing everyone through the viewfinder.

His head turned and our eyes met, then he glanced away. I must have squared my shoulders because I felt Jeremiah’s
body stiffen. Together, we wandered over in their direction.

“Jeremiah Tyler.” He sounded unusually curt. His black crew cut accented his strong facial features. His black wool
sweater and wool dress slacks made him seem taller than he was and more than a little intimidating.

Jeremiah extended his right hand and I glanced at him, trying to figure out the reason for his curtness. His expression
was neutral. The man hesitated, then gripped Jeremiah’s outstretched hand. Jeremiah turned to me. “And this is my
wife, Mattie, Angela’s sister.”

I smiled and extended my hand, felt the sweat on the man’s palm. His fingers barely touched mine before breaking
contact, and I wondered whether he was nervous. And if so, whether Jeremiah was making him feel that way.

“Gary Tacque.” Gary smiled suddenly and slid an arm around Angela’s shoulders, pulling her close, her black outfit
matching his suit. His small green eyes darted my way, then back to Jeremiah. “Angela’s told me all about you.”

“Your name seems unfamiliar. Are you from this area?” Jeremiah edged between the man and my sister, forcing Gary
to drop his arm. I took Angela’s hand and started to lead her away when vice-like fingers gripped my shoulder.

“Just where…” Gary’s voice raked my already raw nerves. He coughed, then started again. “Stay with us.” His voice
sounded like a demand, his fingers dug into my flesh despite my heavy sweater. I shrugged irritably, and he let go.

“We’ll be back,” I threw over my shoulder.

I led my sister to the music room located across the hall. William had closed the doors to this room, so we were alone
when we entered. I shut the door against the noise and the crowd, relished for a moment the ensuing silence, then
turned towards Angela. Her large, expressive brown eyes looked empty and lost.

“Let’s have it. Who is that guy, and where’d you meet him?” Okay, maybe not the best way to ask about a new
boyfriend, but we had just watched our parents being buried. I wanted her close, not distracted by someone else.

Angela avoided eye contact. “He’s a friend.” She seemed really out of it.

“Come on, Angela, you can come up with more than that.”

Angela stared at me, and I wondered whether she had taken some sort of tranquilizer. Not that I blamed her, but the
idea of her relying so heavily on Gary irked me. Angela was four years my junior, had graduated with a Masters in
Sociology, and was now a social worker at the community hospital in Norman. At twenty-four she was quiet, an
excellent listener, and understood other people’s problems with soothing empathy. But she was naïve to the point of
clueless when it came to reading people. Being a photojournalist and four years older, I had more experience, had been
exposed to the baser side of life. I knew that her blind eye would be worse than usual, and I wanted to protect her.

“Gary Tacque.” She looked at me.

“Well, yeah. He told me that. I want to know
who he is.”

She relented. “He’s a representative for a drug company. I can’t remember the name right off.”

“Where’d you meet him?” My voice sounded as curt as Jeremiah’s. I’d better quit sounding so critical. Emotions
were running amok already.

“At the hospital. He’s very nice. He doesn’t have many friends because of the way his face looks.”

“You mean nobody knows who he is, which means he may have secrets worth knowing about.” I blurted, then
clamped my lips shut. Sounding accusatory wasn’t going to get me very far.

The questions, however, rattled out by themselves. “So, where’s he from? Does he have any family? How long has he
worked for the drug company?”

Angela’s chin jutted and her mouth tightened into a thin line. “Mattie, knock off the inquisition, okay? He’s a nice man,
and he’s been at my side ever since that awful call from the State Patrol last summer about Uncle Bernard.”

Our Uncle Bernard, Dad’s brother and only sibling, had died in a car crash while driving back to Alabama after
spending July Fourth weekend with us.

I tried to back off. “I want to know how involved you are with him, that’s all. I am your sister, and it’s just the two
of us now.” Mom had been an only child.

Angela glared at me. “You’re acting like you’re the boss now. Since when is my life suddenly your business?”

“Since we buried Mom and Dad,” I bristled. “You’re exceptional at sensing other people’s troubles, but you don’t
have a clue how to recognize when someone’s pulling one over on you.”
Damn it. I shouldn’t have said that. I opened
my mouth to apologize.

“Mind your own business and leave me alone.” Angela’s stony words matched her expression. She spun away and
started towards the door.

“Angela, wait. Please. I’m sorry.”

I reached for her, but she turned with such an angry expression, that I backed away. Her demeanor was so totally
unlike her that I wasn’t sure what to do. I took another step back, felt the bench of the nearest grand piano against the
backs of my knees, and sank down. The one I sat beside had been Dad’s favorite. I remembered the childhood piano
lessons I had fought. Why had I been so insistent about not learning something my father cared so passionately about?
Why had I refused to follow in his footsteps?

Angela paused. Possibly she saw the pain and confusion in my face, because she drifted over to the other piano and
sat down. I watched her arms lift the lid covering the keys. A slow, single melody line drifted from strings hidden
under the massive lid of the nine-foot grand.

“I’m sorry.” I repeated, feeling like I was apologizing to my father as much as I was trying to defuse things with my
sister. “I just want to know who this guy is. It’s … you and me now. I … I guess I got mad because he didn’t bother
to introduce himself at the car.” My gaze dropped to the exquisite Persian rug that carpeted most of the floor. The
soft pile had provided cushioning whenever the two of us slept under the instruments. We had been young, small,

The wandering melody broke off. “Do you remember how we used to camp out underneath these?” Angela’s voice
broke into my thoughts. “It was so cool, lying under there whenever Dad was practicing. Or when the two of them
were in here working on a program. I wonder how they ever got anything done, the way we giggled and carried on.”

“I wish you had pursued your music.” I looked up at her, wishing with a fresh wave of despair that I hadn’t been so
stubborn about lessons. “I loved listening to you play, too.” She and Dad had worked on two-piano works together
during her years in high school. She had been offered full scholarships by several universities, and partial scholarships
from two conservatories.

“After I saw how much the therapists helped Jeremiah’s brother, I wanted to try to help people instead.”

Jeremiah’s younger brother, David Mud Rain Tyler, had Down’s Syndrome. He only answered to Mud Rain, had
recently turned fourteen. When I first met Jeremiah eight years ago, Mud Rain had been six years old, non-verbal and
difficult to control. Jeremiah had taken him off the Reservation and tried several centers that focused on kids with
special needs. It had been Angela who had made the difference. Mud Rain responded to Angela’s gentle firmness with
astounding progress. I admired her for choosing to work with kids with special needs, but the selfish side of me
wished that she had pursued her musical talent.

“But you’re so good,” I said, trying to bridge the uncharacteristic communication gap that yawned between us. “Can’t
you find time to pick it up again?”

Angela’s mouth turned downward. “Quit trying to make everything my fault. I’m tired of you thinking you’re always

I frowned, realized my expression matched hers, tried to work the corners of my mouth upward, but they quivered
instead. We used to email each other daily. Thinking back on things, I realized our communication had dropped off the
last couple of months. Angela and I used to talk about anything (and I do mean

“Nobody makes a good first impression with you, Mattie. You’re too busy looking at them the way they would look
through a camera lens. In case you forget, I didn’t like Jeremiah when you brought him home the first time.”

Her abrupt change in subject jerked me back to my bluntness about the new man in her life.

She stood and wandered over to where I sat. Leaning her elbows on the closed lid of Dad’s piano, she began tracing
imaginary patterns with a finger on the closed ebony lid.

“I didn’t like him because I knew he was moving and you were going to go with him.”

Yeah, I remembered that conversation. When a job opportunity had opened in Colorado Springs instead of somewhere
in Oklahoma, we had cried together over how Life was ripping our world apart.

I tried to smile. “Okay, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. But honestly, he acted sort of rude when he met you at
the car.”

Her damp chocolate brown eyes focused on her moving finger. “You’re not interested in getting to know him.”

I leaned on the closed lid of the keyboard and pressed the palms of my hands against my eyes. “C’mon, Angela.
That’s ridiculous. Jeremiah and I walked over to meet the two of you, didn’t we?”

“You’re just reacting to what you see. Just because he doesn’t have a GQ face doesn’t mean he’s not a nice guy.”

I raised my head and stared at her. “Is that what you really think?”

“You’re not trying to get to know him at all.”

I felt like two separate conversations were going on. “Angela, you can’t seriously be thinking that.”

Her finger stopped and she straightened. “You’re just jealous because I’ve finally found someone besides you to be
close to. That’s why you don’t like Gary.”

I stood, my legs knocking against the heavy bench. “Hey, I just want to know more about him. Excuse me for being
interested,” I retorted.

“He’s good company. We get along. Like Mom and Dad do … did.” Angela released a long, ragged sigh.

“Angela, you’re not even listening to me!” I threw up my hands, sat back down, and glared out the window at the
thrashing branches that should have had spring buds but didn’t because of the current cold snap.

Tears stung my eyes, trickled down my cheeks. Maybe my reaction had to do with the fact that the man had been
seeing my sister for a while, and this was the first I had heard about it.

“So why haven’t you called or emailed me about him?” I didn’t turn around, didn’t want Angela to see how upset I

When she answered her voice sounded shaky. “You’re always busy, and Gary is always around when I think about
calling, and we get distracted doing something else. I’m away from my computer most of the day now. It would help
if we could text.” She stopped. I knew what she was going to say next.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not buying another expensive phone to lose or get dropped in a puddle. I’m behind the
wheel most of the day anyway.”

“I was going to have you meet him over Christmas, but you didn’t make it down.”

Guilt poked me in the chest. She didn’t have to bring that up. I rubbed my face with my hands, stared out the window
again. Strong winds bent bare tree limbs almost ninety degrees. Low clouds, looking like Marley’s ghosts, raced
across the late afternoon sky.

“Did you get the job?” Angela asked from behind me.

“No. Jason got it.” Not only had I not come down to see family for Christmas, but the job opening I had been hoping
to get with the photo shoot had not gone my way. Feeling stubborn, I turned around. “You could’ve emailed me about
him. My computer is always with me.”

Angela didn’t offer any comment.

“What …” I trailed off, balking at having to use past tense. “What … did … Mom and Dad think of Gary?”

A long silence followed before Angela replied. “He … hadn’t actually met Mom or Dad yet.”

Alarm bells began ringing in my head, and too late I realized that I was scowling. Angela glared back. “What? He’s
always busy, and I moved to an apartment in Norman so I could be closer to the hospital. Sometimes I don’t get off
work until late. I haven’t been living in the house since last summer. Whenever I drive up to Shawnee to say hi, I
always ask him to come along. He’s tried to come up sometimes after his appointments, but they run too late.”

“You didn’t tell me you had moved. Neither did Mom and Dad.” I realized belatedly that I had been short on the phone
with my parents since Christmas. I hadn’t wanted to hear their ready acceptance and support of my failure to get the

Angela’s expression bordered on hostile. “My computer crashed after I got into the apartment. I haven’t gotten it
fixed yet. Gary said I must’ve downloaded a virus from the Internet when I was setting it up.”

“You could’ve called me, damn it.” I ignored inner warnings and let emotions take control. “Or did he keep you too
busy to do that, either?”

“You know what? You’re being really bitchy about all of this. I’ve been busy. Gary’s been busy. Don’t get on
case for not calling
you when you’re the one who couldn’t spare enough time to come home for Christmas.”

The music room door swung open and Gary’s head popped around the edge. I opened my mouth to tell him to butt
out, stalled when I tried to think of a different way of putting it, and lost the opportunity altogether.

“Angela, there you are, sweet pea. I’ve been worried about you.” He stepped into the room. An inexplicable sense of
protectiveness washed over me, and I rose to stand beside my sister.

“What could you possibly be worried about? She’s here with me, in our house.” My voice echoed around the
acoustically live room, sharp, uninviting.

“A lot has happened since you last saw your sister. I’ve been with her. I know how all of this is affecting her.” He
sounded so patronizing that I wondered how on earth my sister could possibly be attracted to the man.

Angela walked over to stand beside him. Her action seemed like a choice of sides. Disconcerting, to say the least.

“Nice talking with you.” The tone of her voice said otherwise. I stared in numbed silence as she and Gary disappeared
around the door. The polished cherry wood barrier swung shut with a disturbingly metaphorical click.
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