Kim Fairley - Shooting Out the Lights: A Memoir

SHOOTING

OUT THE

LIGHTS

Copyright 2021, Kim Fairley

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2021

Printed in the United States of America

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64742-134-2

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-64742-067-3

E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-135-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900773

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In memory of

Stanislaus Bury Coxe

April 8, 1971 September 26, 2017

N obody could give me answers.

For years, I tried to put together what had happened on New Years Eve, 1977. It was only two years before I moved to Hillsboro, the historic town tucked in the middle of Highland County, Ohio. And nobody who had lived there before me, not even members of my own familywho could talk about anythingseemed to know what had happened. Most people werent even willing to speak about it.

If Id been smart, I wouldve followed their lead. But how does one block out a single story without erasing dozens of others?

The Ben story had become a part of my life. So I went with it. I was determined to fill in the blank page.

In a chalky brick Greek Revival house at the corner of West South and Oak, two boys sat on a long couch facing a built-in bookcase the color of driftwood. Its shelves were filled with life-size carved and painted birds. Against the wall, and hovering over them, stood a tall blood-red, black, and blue totem pole from the Pacific Northwest. It was sculpted with sharpened stones from a single cedar log. And near their knees, on an abraded antique blanket chest, was a box of shells and a revolver. Ben, fourteen, his face creased in concentration, used somethinga pair of needle nose pliers?to pull the projectile and gun powder out of each shell casing, then showed his twelve-year-old friend how to make blanks to create a loud explosion.

You sure its safe? the boy undoubtedly asked. Ben was familiar with guns, but the younger boy was not.

Look... Ben placed several rounds in the revolver and may have been lifting the gun to demonstrate when the phone rang. Just a minute. He placed the revolver on the coffee table and hurried to the kitchen, where the clock on the wall showed a few minutes before midnight. As he grabbed the phone, firecrackers sounded in the neighborhood.

This Ben? It was Paul Captain, his fathers friend, who sometimes helped with deliveries in the family hardware business. Later, he told his wife hed had a bad feeling.

Hi, Mr. Captain. In my minds eye, I can see Ben wrapping the long telephone cord around his wrist.

How you doin?

Just hanging out. Ben slid back to the family room, his shoulder squeezing the phone to his cheek. Like his father, he mayve raised his index finger to the younger boy, signaling the call wouldnt take long.

Your daddy there? Paul coughed and waited.

Hes at Harshas, Ben said. At a party. He leaned into the hallway to listen to the television report of the New Years celebrations around the world.

Pauls warm, intoxicated laugh held on to Ben. You okay? Paul paused for a moment. When Ben didnt answer, he said, Look, you tell your daddy I called to wish him Happy New Years, and you stay out of trouble... you hear?

Okay, Mr. Captain, Ben said, grinning to his friend. Ill tell him. And from what I could piece together, Ben hung up the phone, then raised the television volume in the living room. Happy New Year! You want to try it? He handed the younger boy the revolver.

You sure?

Of course. Shoot it.

The boy cocked the gun, aimed at Ben, and squeezed the trigger.

A few blocks away, at 216 East Main Street, a party was well underway. The dark gray brick Italianate with its black iron fence and elaborate porch with iron fretwork hadnt changed much since the Temperance Movement swept through the town in the mid-1870s. Its tall front and central double doors, decorated with Christmas wreaths, were surrounded by greenery. The porchs yellow lights flickered; its cold windows sweated. Inside each room, candles cast shadows that danced off twelve-foot walls. The dining table was filled with a display of hors doeuvres on tiered silver trays. As more than one hundred guests, dressed to the nines, mingled, they kissed and clinked glasses. Several guests, to gales of laughter, sang Auld Lang Syne, their arms wrapped around each other as they swayed to the music.

Then, like a sudden change of wind, the kitchen phone rang out through the merriment. A frantic call for Vernon Fairley.

A moment later, Verns hands shook as he placed the phone on the hook. He bent over to speak to his friend Jerry. Bens been shot. Could you go and tell Caroline?

History is not the past.

It is the present.

We carry our history with us.

We are our history.

J AMES B ALDWIN

V ern was not the kind of husband Id ever dreamed of as a child. All my boyfriends had been fellow competitive swimmerstall, blond, and muscular, with pasty skin. Vern was short and tan, with the carriage of a taller man and rugged good looks, but in questionable health due to an addiction to unfiltered Pall Malls from his years in the Navy. I was a leggy athlete, bigger and more muscular, and felt like a moose standing next to him. But the most obvious difference between us was that he was thirty-two years older.

I know. Thirty-two years. Its odd. And I know what youre thinking: she mustve been after his money, his social status, a sense of security. And, okay, maybe these things were a part of the attraction. Vern didnt have creditors calling or men in dark suits from the IRS poring over restaurant receipts, like my parents did. He owned a car and a truck and a house and a hardware store, and as far as I could tell, he paid his bills. He had time to live without chasing his tail.

But I did feel odd falling in love with him. He was the kind of man who would invite me to lunch at Magees diner, and wed enter through the kitchen off the back alley so he could greet the cook and lift the lids of the pots and pans to smell what was cooking. When I was in a rush, he would say things like, Now therefore, while the youthful hue sits on thy skin like morning dew, and while thy willing soul transpires at every pore with instant firesquoting from Marvells To His Coy Mistress, I later learned. Our relationship mustve reminded him of lifes fragility. To me, the poem was yet one more charming aspect of his personality. Nobody in my world had ever memorized poems. Or had such an interesting cast of characters around him.

Vern seemed to assume he could make his way in the world unashamed, without asking permission or so much as if you please. On an early trip to Cincinnati, as we strolled down a sidewalk arm in arm and a strange woman glowered, Vern spoke to her directly. Hello there, Georgette, hows the world treating you? Attending a funeral for a friend, when someone asked, Doesnt she look peaceful? he answered, She looks dead.