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But I saw something in his eyes that reflected in me. Something I saw every time I looked in the mirror, and I think that’s why he said the things that he did.
I know the kind of hate you feel… It’s not something easily done, but if you can, you have to make peace with this guy. Not for him, but for yourself.
Those words sat with me. It’s not that they were extremely enlightening or anything, but they spoke to the truth I’ve felt for some time now. I just haven’t had it in me to forgive. Not until now.
Joseph Kent.
It was a name I couldn’t see, hear, or even think of without completely raging. He is the person I’ve held responsible for Tommy’s death for three years now. The one who took away the one person who was holding our family together.
The day that he was banned from stock-car racing, I remember feeling angry that his punishment hadn’t been more severe. Why shouldn’t he have to suffer the way that me and my family did?
Sitting here, parked across the street from his run-down one-bedroom home, I’m thinking that maybe he has been.
The paint on the once white home is chipping in places. Dark gray shutters are either hanging off the hinges or missing all together.
I approached the swinging gate, taking stock of the overgrown yard — and lack of pets — and let myself in.
Newspapers litter one side of the yard. Some are weathered and dark, slowly becoming one with the ground beneath them. Others are a little newer, but still wrinkled with the moisture of several a morning dew.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that the place was long since abandoned. But Kent’s old town car in the driveway proves otherwise.
The wooden steps creak beneath my feet as I ascend to the front door. When no sound emits from the doorbell, I pull open the screen door and knock twice on the front door.
Stumbling steps crash toward the front of the house, and when the front door finally creaks open, I hardly recognize the man on the other side.
But he recognizes me.
“No, no, no,” he shouts frantically, stepping back to slam the door in my face.
I waste no time and shove my foot against the weight of the door, bracing it with my forearm.
“Wait,” I say, but he’s shaking his head.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay? I don’t want any trouble,” he says, continuing to throw his head from side to side, refusing to make eye-contact.
“That’s not why I’m here, Kent. I just need to talk to you.”
“I stayed gone, just like I was told. I didn’t go back. I didn’t.”
He finally steps away from the door, and I swing it open. The stench of body odor and stale alcohol hitting me right in the face.
“Jesus,” I say to myself, taking shallow breaths through my mouth so I don’t have to breathe that smell in any more than necessary.
Kent stands at about five-foot-eight; almost seven inches shorter than me. It always worked in his favor on the track. The shorter the guy, the less he weighed, the faster he was able to drive.
But this guy isn’t going anywhere fast. He can barely stand up straight, and by the half empty six-pack behind him — as well as the stack of empty cans on the table — I think it's safe to assume that the guy is plastered.
He looks it. His sallow skin is marred by a five o’clock shadow and his greasy hair needs a wash and cut.
I hear Eli’s words again and see the truth in them. Kent is more than suffering from the choices he made that day. There isn’t anything I can do to him that would be worse than the hell he’s living in every day.
Kent is still babbling to himself, like he’s forgotten I’m standing here.
“Kent,” I call his name and he turns to look at me, eyes glazed over and red-rimmed.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident,” he says.
I grit my teeth and school my expression. I need to just ask my questions and get out of here.
