The Never List

operation right under her nose. Maybe to spite her. To punish her. And she kept quiet. She kept quiet.
    We all sat in silence, listening to Mrs. Watson’s soft sobs. Then she started to ramble.
    “I don’t know what made Noah like this. I don’t understand what created this beast. I honestly don’t. His family was so loving. So kind. They used to do things like … you know, they worked in soup kitchens, they ran food drives, they took in orphans, for God’s sake.”
    My ears pricked up at this. “Orphans?”
    “Yes, you know, they fostered children from around the state.”
    “Did Noah ever talk about any of these foster kids?”
    She only had to think about this a second before nodding thoughtfully.
    “Well, there was one I think he got quite close to. Even years later he referred to him as his brother, though of course they weren’t blood relatives. I think they stayed in touch after he was legally adopted by someone else. I know they wrote to each other for years. When Noah would get one of those letters, he would go off on his own into the wilderness to—as he put it—ponder and reflect. He would always come back saying he’d renewed his mission, that he was on the right path and couldn’t stop now. It was bigger than him. More important than us.”
    I tried to make eye contact with Tracy, but she was shutting me out, looking straight ahead.
    Helen went on. “I think—I mean, I know—I have something from those times. When I was packing my things, I had a drawerwith some photographs and letters of mine in it. I shoved them into my purse. Mixed in with them were a couple of things that weren’t mine, a photograph and part of an envelope with an address. I—I kept them anyway. I don’t really know why. Maybe I thought I’d need to prove something someday.”
    “Where are they?”
    “I keep them here. In the office. I wanted to keep them locked up, and this is the only safe I have,” she explained.
    “Can we see them?”
    She stood up slowly and wiped her eyes. She led us down the hall to a well-kept little office in the corner and stepped into a closet. We heard the soft click of a lock, and then she came out with an envelope and photograph in her hand.
    “I’m sure it doesn’t mean much, but here is what I have.”
    She put the items on the desk. The three of us nearly bumped heads bending down low over the photograph. On the right was a youthful Noah Philben, about fourteen years old. He was laughing at what the other boy in the photo was saying, looking up at the sky. The other boy had been turning his head when the picture was snapped, so it was blurred.
    “What do you think?” I said, turning to Tracy and Christine.
    “Could be,” said Christine, “but not really definitive.”
    “Yes, I mean, the hair is much lighter, but that could be age.” Tracy leaned down even closer. “I can’t tell about the nose.”
    We turned to the envelope. It was addressed to a Tom Philben at a post office box in River Bend. It could easily have been a pseudonym. We needed to find out who owned that box—that was Jim’s jurisdiction.
    “May we keep these? Just for a while. We’ll return them. It’s very important, Mrs. Watson.”
    She hesitated but eventually nodded yes. We said our good-byes, thanking her over and over, and went out to our car. I took one lastlook back at this broken woman, finally released from her secret, sitting alone in that tiny room, looking small and helpless there against the wood-paneled wall, under the crucifix.
    We got into the car and sat still in the parking lot for a few minutes. No one spoke.
    “She’s lying,” Tracy finally said.
    “What?” said Christine. “About what?”
    “Tracy’s right,” I said. “She’s lying. She definitely turned tricks. She didn’t know whose baby that was.”
    “Why would you say that? Isn’t what she told us bad enough?” Christine seemed genuinely shocked.
    “Yes, but there is some reason she kept her mouth shut completely about Noah Philben all these years. Even though she obviously had the feeling those girls in the vans were not just worshipping in the woods. Why else did she keep that stuff in a safe? She knew. And she did nothing. And she carried all that guilt around with her. For only one reason—he knew she’d been a prostitute and that she’d aborted some john’s baby. He must have had some proof he was holding over her head all these years.”
    Tracy nodded. “That’s exactly right. But