by catt dahman
At the door and holding onto the frame, I felt the cool air washing out cobwebs from my head. I gulped air. The buzzing was going away so I could think. Already, behind me, the crowd was showing confusion.
With Will right behind me, I made it, albeit weakly, to the street, searching for Grace. She was running to my car, so that’s where we headed.
The woman driving the car would later say her head had begun to ache fiercely, the road dimmed, going wavy, and her car felt as if it were almost vibrating with a low buzz.
The car was a two-toned 1956 Plymouth.
It hit Grace.
She went up onto the hood, sideways, rolling to the windshield and then flying over onto a lawn, yards away. She didn’t make a sound. I was already screaming as we ran to her. I grabbed her limp hand, slumped to the grass, felt the cool wind blowing over me. Her face beautiful, she moved her eyes over to me.
“Stay with me, Baby,” I said, trying to smile reassuringly.
She smiled back.
“I love you,” I said.
She whispered she loved me.
“Don’t let go. You’ll be fine; we’re gonna get married.”
She was looking forward to that.
“This isn’t that bad; you’re fine.”
She disagreed and said she was sure she was dying.
I said no. I refused to accept that.
She sweetly disagreed again.
“No.” I made a quick deal with God and offered my soul to Satan as well. “You can’t leave me.”
Grace was of the opinion that we would be together again in some afterlife, but right now, this situation was serious. She stressed that she was sure.
Her hand was just lying in mine, and she didn’t squeeze back. “Don’t take her,” I warned God.
I dimly heard people around us, crying. Will was bawling his eyes out.
I began to scream again then, daring God to take me instead and not to take Grace. I made some big promises and some bigger threats. I was pleading. She was my forever.
Grace told me we were forever.
They said she died on impact before she ever hit the ground, that we didn’t talk while she was lying there. Screw them all. What do they know?
I lost my Grace, as she left me, mid-promise to God. Her neck was broken.
Chapter 18
(Brief interlude while I stop shaking and wait until I can resume my story)
Chapter 19
Will told me later that I raved for three days and nights, screaming for her until I was so hoarse I could only whisper. The doctor kept me sedated a lot of the time; when I was awake, I threw things and disturbed the other hospital patients. Only my parents and Will were allowed to see me. It was the same when I came home.
No visitors allowed.
There are parts of the funeral I recall: a white casket, white roses, pink roses, and people dressed up and sobbing. Someone mumbled loudly, rambling incoherently.
I saw everyone from college, but no one came close. Will and my father mostly held me on my feet; Grace’s parents embraced me, holding my hand as they allowed me to sit with the family in the front row of the church. Mrs. Stevenson patted my back often.
At some point, I began to think about how Grace would laugh at such seriousness, and I giggled. All this stodginess would crack her up. Giggles morphed into laughing hysterically.
My dad and Will gathered me up again, my mother in tow, to rush me home again to my new best friend, a dependable, reliable, happy bottle of pills.
I had several pill friends, and I loved them all. There were doctors I ignored, office visits I sat dreaming through, voices, maybe my mother’s, begging my dad to give me more time. For what?
There was Dad, holding me, letting me sob against his strong chest, and Mom making favorite foods and bathing my brow with cold water at odd hours of the endless night.
Will was a daily visitor, talking to me about sports, school, politics, unending topics that lulled me into a restful place.
Grief and Self-Pity were close companions and only bested in my heart by Pain and Misery. We partied with those bottles of pills that were always there for me.
I was an OUT PATIENT. That was an important status. It meant someone was always awake as various relatives moved in and out to help my parents with me. In my house, there was a lot of fried chicken rolled in flour, fried, and drained.
Will spent the night often babysitting, playing board games and poker with me. I was watched when, if, I shaved, when I took my pills, when I did anything, and when I did nothing but stare out my window at Grace’s house.
The bathroom no longer had a lock and had been cleared out. I noticed one day my hunting rifle was missing from my closet. No one really got that I was digging the pain, enjoying my torment, and had no desire to end it. As long as I hurt, Grace was still with me.
I drooled at Christmas dinner. I really did, just sat there in my spot, stared at my plate, and let the saliva drip down my chin. And I didn’t care. Mom cried, and Will made jokes about it.
No one touched my pictures of Grace.
One day it was spring. I watched the Giants win at Candlestick Park. I watched the fireworks with my parents at Spring Lake Park on July 4. In August, my favorite professor, Dr. Williams, showed up to visit me.
“How are you, David?”
“Fine, Sir, Doing better. I’m glad you came to see me.”
“I came a few times….”
“Did you? Thanks.” Had he?
“You may not recall; you were tired at the time.”
“Yes, Sir. I have been tired a lot.” I didn’t know if he had been there or not. I knew Grace had died, and it had been a while but wasn’t exactly sure how much time had passed.
“I was hoping you might feel like coming back to classes this fall.”
“When is that?”
He fumbled only a second. “Umm. Next month.”
“Do you think I should?” Will had said I should, but it was best to get more opinions on this weighty topic.
“I think you would enjoy it. You always did wonderful in your classes, and you could start with a class or two.”
“Could I take one of your classes?”
“I would be honored. Is that a yes? You’ll come back?”
“Sure.” I felt agreeable.
He pointed to my bottles of dear friends. “You’ll have to give up some of these to concentrate on school.”
I had been weaning off. Ah. They wanted me to come back to reality and live normally again. I thought it over. “That’s….it would be difficult.”
“Sure it will be, but you need to get healthy again and get strong….you don’t want to get flabby…and your brain sure needs some exercise.”
That didn’t sound too bad. “Okay.”
“Your mother said she would drive you until you felt like taking that over again, and you could take a few classes. I was looking for a teaching assistant…someone to help me grade papers and go over some material as needed in classes you have already taken. I can’t pay, but the experience will look good for you.”
“Okay.” That sounded fine as well. “You know Grace died.”
He sighed. “I’m so very sorry, David.”
I just wanted to be sure he knew; things were still very confusing and dizzy for me. “She was just one of them, though.”
“One of whom?”
“One of the blonde girls who died. Her neck was broken. All of them were the same in that way. Have more died?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. It was a horrible accident, David.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I whispered. Of course, he stared at me as if I were insane, smiling gently with compassion.
“Well, we can think about this later. I’m glad you’re coming back to college.”
I didn’t have to explain; he didn’t ask questions.
I worked on building my muscles back, studied hard, graded papers, and tutored students for Dr. Williams, and was able
to drive again in October. I watched sports with my parents, spent a lot of time with Will, reminding me of my childhood, and attended church, despite the fact that my bargain with God had not worked.
What I didn’t do: I didn’t go to parties, I didn’t hang out socially, I didn’t date, and I didn’t take the pills.
What I stopped: I stopped watching, ‘spying on’, Grace’s parents next door, I stopped hurting quite so much, and I stopped having nightmares that had made me awaken, crying or screaming in my sleep.
What I did: I got my razor back and could shave alone, and I did shave, I had good memories, and I lived.
Chapter 20
Summer 1977
They say you can’t go back, but you can; it’s just all changed when you do.
I hesitantly returned to Texarkana for my twenty-year reunion. Reggie Jackson was a pistol; Elton John, Led Zeppelin, and BTO played the air waves; President Carter, thank you very much Jimmy, pardoned draft dodgers; and I saw Star Wars. I wasn’t impressed with the movie but thought that Harrison Ford might become a decent actor.
I finished my two years at Texarkana College and transferred to University of Texas, working part time for a newspaper while finishing my Masters degree in English. I didn’t know Charles Whitman, but I knew one of his victims who died, someone I liked and respected a lot. That was in 1966. I covered that story for my newspaper, doing a bang-up job.
I went to Woodstock; I had sex in a blue van with a pretty, skinny blonde who had long hair and greenish eyes, or maybe she had dark, short hair and brown eyes, or maybe there was more than one girl.
I was trying acid for the first time while smoking a lot of pot. The van may have been any color, really. I do know I had a lot of sex, used a lot of drugs, heard great music, peed in the mud, and got very ripe-smelling over several days. I lost my shoes.
In 1969, I wrote about Charlie Manson and won an award from my newspaper after my stint in California, focusing on the Spahn Ranch as the catalyst. I had my own theories by then. Manson didn’t weld a weapon in the murders, but he sure decided who was to die and why and how. His followers remained loyal. I realized then that sometimes killers didn’t actually do the murder, that taking lives can be brutal and obvious or clandestine and subtle.
I was flown to Maryland to interview witnesses to Bremer’s crime. My editor claimed I was slanting sympathy for Bremer; I disagreed; I quit to write the book.
Everyone read it. Save Me from Myself was on the bestseller list for two years, along with two more I penned quickly, one about Ed Gein, and the other, about Herbert Mullin, who killed to prevent earthquakes; that one was thought provoking. Before long, I was termed a true-crime writer; it sure paid the bills and then some. I wrote one about Manson and then about Whitman. All were best sellers.
On the side, under a pen name, I wrote science fiction in which the heroines were all blonde, green-eyes beauties. Villains, dragons, and monsters chased the good guys as they had for me since 1957. I lived mostly, in Gulfport, Mississippi, enjoying the white sands when the crime wasn’t popping and the monsters weren’t lurking.
My mother forwarded my invitation for my twentieth-year high school reunion. I decided to go. I was curious.
In Texarkana, my parents hugged me, Mom made a stunning dinner, and Dad showed off that he had read each of my books, including the fantasy, many times over.
My childhood home was beautifully painted, crisp looking, trees taller, pool sparkling, kitchen and baths modern. Over the years, despite protests, I have faithfully sent them cash gifts, trips, and paid for them to have nice cars. In a way, this was my legacy.
Upstairs, my bed, still placed under the window, was covered with its dust ruffle and quilt, both white and blue, and faded. Bulldog pennants were on the walls, my bulletin board was still full of pictures and articles I had tacked up, yellowed, and my shelves were filled with trophies and books. The novels I had penned were lined up along-side the old books. Sports posters lined the walls, a royal blue rug softened the floor, and newer white curtains framed the windows. A new bulletin board had been added with pictures and articles about me at book signings, best seller lists: my books circled, and stubs of their trip tickets that I had sent.
Silver-framed pictures of me, of me with Will, of me with my parents, and of Grace were on the dresser. I stroked the frames.
When I looked into the mirror, I saw a middle-aged man of thirty-eight. Grace was eternally nineteen. In some situations, I was old enough to be a father to a girl that young.
In some ways I was with one foot back then, young and facing a bold new world; I was also in this world, face tanned with some fine lines, hair lightening at my temples, eyes tired of failed dreams.
I had done well in my career. My personal life, ‘meh’, it was not anything to be proud of. The dreams of being married to Grace and having my career, of having children, a cat and dog, and picket fence had not panned out, so I hadn’t done much with it.
After unpacking, I cleaned up before going next door. I wanted to see Grace’s parents.
Mrs. Stevenson hugged me at the door, her face lit with surprise at seeing me; she was warmer than ever before. “David! You are so handsome!” She smothered me again with hugs. “Come in and sit down.”
“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Stevenson.”
“Annelle. You are way too grown to call me Mrs. Anything.” She was a pretty lady; she had aged well with her blonde hair pinned up and darker now, her dark greenish-gray eyes sparkling, figure trim, outfit stylish.
“I’m so glad to see you.”
“I’m glad to see you. David, I’ve read every single thing you’ve written and everything written about you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You are a tremendous writer; I keep wanting more.”
“Well, I plan to keep churning ‘em out.” I accepted a gin and tonic from the pitcher she made, and no, she wasn’t pulling a Mrs. Robinson. She told me the town gossip, we eased into a conversation about Grace, looked through her scrapbooks, laughing, had second drinks.
“Grace was so happy. She was happy when we moved here and after meeting you, but then she was less happy; then, she was all smiles again when you and she started dating.”
“I was happy, too.”
“We should have never encouraged her to date that Bernie…it was awful of us, but we didn’t know better. Things were so different back then, Hon, we were looking at things like our parents had. We forgot to think about what she wanted.”
I nodded. “She knew that.”
“And we were glad she dated you.”
“I wasn’t sure…if I were your choice.”
She chuckled. “You were. But had I shown too much excitement, she would have rebelled again. She was a teenage daughter, David.”
I shrugged. “I’m glad she and I had that time at least. We were going to announce our engagement.”
“That would have been lovely. Imagine your parents and us in-laws. Since that night, your mother has hardly spoken to us. I think maybe she holds it against us what happened?”
“No. Not that. She just wanted to stop being reminded, I guess. After that, you know I left for college and never came back. They came to see me, and we met places for vacations, but this is the first time I’ve been back. They missed me.”
“I heard you never came back. I can see that,” she said. “So what brought you back?”
“Twentieth high school reunion. Curiosity. I’m not sure, really.”
“So, it’s just a visit?
“Maybe. I can live anywhere to write, though I love the beach house.”
“Are you looking forward to seeing your old friends?”
“I don’t know.” She looked confused. “Can I tell you about it? What happened that night Grace died?”
“Yes. I feel as if I know so little. Can you talk about it?”
“I think so. If you can get me some ice water…a big glass.”
She did. I told her about
that night, the surrealism, how odd it all felt, how everyone acted so strangely, about Bernie and Jennifer, having to back up and explain the background for them.
I told her about the Valentine’s dance and what I saw and heard. I talked a very long time, through several glasses of water, a trip to the restroom, and a dry throat.
I told her about meeting Judy and the girls who had died or vanished. I told her everything.
I told her about later, when Will had brought up their behavior, and they simply had no memory of that part of the night, right before Grace had died. I spoke for a very long time.
And I felt purged.
She had only interrupted to clarify a few details but didn’t stare at me as if I were insane. “So you told only Will?”
“Yes...and now you…I needed the right person who might not exactly believe it all easily.”
“I haven’t said I disbelieve you.”
“No, but you asked questions to understand details, not to disprove what I said. I do that when I interview people for my books.” I had to smile, “And you’re not looking at me funny.”
“You have a ton of…impressions and pieces….”
“That doesn’t form a picture. I know. Nothing fits, and yet, while it could just be coincidence, doesn’t it sound…I don’t know…strange?”
“David, you have had eighteen years to think about every detail. I have had far less. After all this time, what do you think? Was it coincidence or…something odd happening here back then? And what is your theory on why and how?”
“I think it was something dark that went on back then. And I think…I think some places generate bad things, such as haunted houses. They aren’t haunted per se, but they are dark places where dark things happen in… bad energy or something.”
“So, Texarkana is haunted? Or bad energy?”
No. Maybe. No…not the town. Maybe the bad energy is around here but gets into people or things. I sound crazy.” My head thrown back, I felt stupid.
“Well, that mystery murderer back in the 40s ran wild and then was gone, the case unsolved. Those girls …we know at least some were killed, and no one put it together back then. Things happened, and no one spoke of it. No one did anything. But that points to the town, right?”