by May Cobb
When the police arrived, they roped off the area and conducted a search for other signs of animal sacrifice. A few steps into the woods—not more than twenty feet from the dead cat—an officer stubbed his boot on Lucy’s lavender-colored Hello Kitty coin purse, half buried in the loamy sand. She always carried it in her back pocket and it was always filled with quarters for the arcade and her yellow, crumpled cafeteria punch card. The card had her name stamped on it and the last day punched was Thursday, the day before she went missing.
“What does this mean?” I asked, through a stream of hot tears.
“I don’t know,” Mom said, shaking her head. “They haven’t found anything else, but I’m telling you all of this because you have to promise me,” she said, her eyes searching mine for understanding, “that you will never, ever go out to Big Woods again.”
A chill passed through my body. “I promise,” I said, automatically, and for the first time, I almost meant it.
Big Woods. I knew it. I knew I had been right; I knew the dreams were real. But there were probably over a thousand gas wells in Big Woods. Had I been close to the right one that night?
When we got home, the house was dark. I flipped on the entryway light and bolted up the stairs to call Sheriff Greene. “He’s not in, he’s off duty-now,” the clerk told me, in a nasally, annoyed tone.
I remembered that the sheriff had given me his card, though, and I fished it off the top of my dresser. He had written his number on the back, in precise, crisp handwriting, so I tried that next.
“Officer Greene,” he answered flatly.
“Hi. Um … this is Leah Spencer,” I said, my voice going shaky.
“Hey, kiddo. How are you? You okay?” he asked, his voice suddenly bright and warm. His voice was strong and reassuring, like something you’d want to lean against. I blurted out everything I knew—about Rain and about the full moon party and what I’d seen out in Big Woods.
He let me finish before saying in a soft tone, “Yeah, Rain’s been on our radar for some time. He’s weird, I’ll give you that, but he’s not our guy.”
“But what about the full moon party? The bonfire and the masks … and—?” I stuttered, my throat tightening, threatening tears.
“We’ve known about these parties and have actually patrolled them.” He paused. “Leah, it’s nothing but a bunch of social outcasts partying.”
“The black roses? My friend and I saw him in the locker bank recently—”
“We searched his locker today. We can’t prove that he’s the one who’s been threatening these girls with the black roses—he probably is—but we did find some cigarettes and a marijuana joint in his locker, so he’ll be spending the next week in juvy just for that. But even still, I can promise you he had nothing to do with Lucy. His alibi checks out—he was in detention when Lucy—” He caught himself and treaded lightly. “He was at school that morning. Like I said, he’s strange, but he’s not capable of—” And he became careful again. “He’s not a suspect.”
“Which gas well was it where Lucy’s purse was found? Where was it exactly? I’d like to know if it was near that party.”
“Now you know I can’t tell you that, kiddo,” he said, a verbal pat on the head. “Look, I’m worried about you. I’m worried about your safety and I hope you know just how dangerous Big Woods really is.”
“Okay, but—”
“Leah, I’m asking you to trust me. Can you do that? We’ve been combing the area all day and will continue to do so. I’ll keep you and your mom posted if we find anything,” he said.
I hang up the phone and feel hollow, scraped out. I go to bed without eating any dinner and the last thing I see in my mind before I fall asleep is Rain’s face, sneering at me.
53
Sylvia
I couldn’t wait to get to work and to tell Hattie everything. I hadn’t slept all day, but I made a fresh thermos of coffee before leaving the house and drove to the burger stand on my way to work to pick up a cheeseburger for dinner. I sat in the parking lot and quickly devoured my dinner and watched as the sun smeared the sky with pink-orange smudges just before it set. When I stepped out of the car, I could already hear the crickets chirping, signaling nighttime.
I punched in and was juggling my thermos and purse and sewing bag, clomping down the hall to find Hattie, when I spotted Dr. Marshall lording over the nurse’s station with his back to me. I slowed my pace and when I approached him, the rest of the nurses scattered like birds. He swung around and said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You need to leave.”
Anger rolled through me and I narrowed my eyes at him. “You can’t fire me.”
He poked a hard finger in my collarbone. “If we must discuss this, then we better do it in my office.” I strained over his shoulder to try and find Hattie but she was hunched behind the station, filling out a chart; she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
In his office he slammed the door behind us and stood right in front of me, his stale, hot breath panting in my face. “I can’t believe you went behind my back and went to the police with this,” he said, trembling with rage.
“You can’t fire a person for doing what I did. For trying to do the right thing,” I spat back at him.
“Listen,” he hissed in my face, “I can’t prove it, but I know you went against my orders and stopped giving that girl her meds.”
My stomach clenched but I kept his gaze, narrowing my eyes and giving my best withering look.
“Listen, I’m just firing you, but you keep this up and I’ll find a way to prove it and you’ll lose your license. You’ll never practice nursing again.” His bald head was splotchy-red with anger and I felt like the office was shrinking so I shot him one last hard look before turning to the door and leaving that basement forever.
54
Leah
Thanksgiving Day
Thursday, November 23rd, 1989
Lucy missing 7 weeks, 6 days
Dad hasn’t been home in over ten days, and I’m pretty sure he’s not coming back. Last night, I was in my room reading a book when the phone rang. I scrambled out of bed and headed down the hall to Mom and Dad’s room. The door was open, so I stepped inside. Mom was sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to me. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?” she said, briskly. I could tell right away that it was Dad. Mom reached for her pack of cigarettes on the night stand and shook one out and lit it. “What the hell have you been doing, Carl?” she said, taking a forceful drag off her cigarette as she let Dad finish whatever it was he had to say. “But Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, for Christ’s sake!”
Her back slumped down in defeat. “Fine. You spend another night there. Spend the rest of the month there. If you can’t pull it together for Leah, for us,” she said, her voice wavering with tears, “then I don’t want you coming home.”
She slammed the phone down. My face flushed and tears pricked my eyes. I wanted to cross the room, to go over to her, to hug her, but I knew this was all my fault, so instead, I crept back down the hall to my dark room and cried until I fell asleep.
Since it’s just Mom and me at home, we decided to eat our Thanksgiving meal at Luby’s Cafeteria. We usually prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but not this year.
To me, Luby’s is comforting. Lucy and I use to eat there every Sunday after church with Grandma and Grandpa. We’d open the heavy glass doors and be enveloped in the heavenly, starchy aroma of cafeteria food. Lucy always wanted to be first in line and she’d stand on her tiptoes and grab a steaming beige tray—straight from the dishwasher—and slap it down on the metal line and glide through, stopping at each station to ogle at the choices. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’d always feel bad when the servers would ask if I wanted their offerings—a sad little salad, or some wobbly fluorescent Jell-O?—and I’d have to turn them down with a quick shake of my head
and an over-polite, “No thank you! None for me today!” with the same dismissiveness as a celebrity turning down an autograph request.
Lucy and I always got the same thing anyway: fried fish with sides of mac and cheese and fried okra, apple pie for dessert and iced tea to drink. When we were seated, Grandma used to say in a rather prim voice, “Well at least, here, you’re getting your vegetables,” as if Mom never fed us any. Lucy and I used to snicker about it later, behind Grandma’s back—the thought that mac and cheese and fried okra were somehow vegetables.
After lunch, glazed over from the food, we’d climb into the backseat of their beer-colored Cadillac. It was always baked from the hot sun and it made us feel drowsy. Lucy would immediately kick off her white patent leather Sunday shoes and peel off her nude panty hose. She’d stretch out and rest with her head in my lap and fall asleep sucking her thumb as we bounced, in the warm safety of their cushy backseat, toward home.
Today the scene at Luby’s was dismal. It was only half full with mostly elderly men—lonely widowers dining alone on Thanksgiving, their clothes rumpled but their hair neatly combed over to one side.
Mom and I chose a table by a large window. In the harsh winter light, I noticed that Mom’s face was spackled with new wrinkles, and a few new silver strands escape her loose bun, her faded blond hair in need of a touch-up.
Between forkfuls of dressing she asked, “Can we talk about your birthday?”
I tore a large chunk off a yeast roll and was rolling the springy dough between my fingers—a habit that used to drive Lucy crazy—before wadding it into smaller balls and shoving them in my mouth.
“Sure.”
“Well, it’s just two weeks away. It’s on a Friday night. Do you want to do something special? Maybe have a sleepover with some friends?” Her strained effort depressed me.
“Not without Lucy,” I said. “No, Mom. It’s just not right.”
“Leah,” she said, shifting cranberry sauce around on her plate. “I hate to say this, but she’s gone.” She put her fork down and looked up at me. “And there’s a possibility she’s not coming back.”
A cry threatened to strangle my throat but I stifled it. “You’re wrong,” I said, softly, into my plate. I wasn’t mad at her anymore, I just wished so badly she knew what I knew, that she could believe what I believed.
A brassy-haired waitress was barreling down on us with the hulking drink cart. Her front wheel was askew and it creaked as she pushed it across the thin brown carpet.
“More tea?” she asked us in a stiff tone. Her hair was combed back in a severe bun, held up by a hairnet. She looked about as pleased as I was to be there.
“I’ll have some more coffee, please,” Mom said, “with cream and sugar. Leah?”
“Yes, more tea. Thank you, ma’am,” I said and fished a quarter out of my purse for the waitress like Grandma used to do. I set it on the corner of her cart and she winked at me and said, “Thanks, hon,” before wheeling the cart away.
“I went to see your father last week,” Mom said, stirring her coffee with quick, nervous movements. “And we both agree that we’re going to go ahead and buy you the car for your birthday. Especially with your father gone so much”—she let out a long, tired sigh and stared blankly at her plate—“you’re gonna need it.”
“That’s great, Mom, thank you. Really,” I said. Giddiness floods my body—I felt light and free and adult, the possibilities already lining up in my head.
“Your father said he would come to the dealership with us, to handle the paperwork. Then, I don’t know, I was thinking the three of us could go to dinner, you know, make a night of it?” Mom asked, folding her hands in her lap. I silently vowed to keep things smooth for a little while, so that maybe Dad will come back home then.
“Of course, Mom. That sounds very nice.” I pushed back my chair and went around the table and gave her a long, hard hug.
55
Sylvia
I woke early the next morning to the sounds of birdsong and threw open my window.
Two purple martins were playfully splashing around in the birdbath, the water sloshing to the ground, washing away the fine mist of yellow pollen that coated the patio. My honeysuckle was beginning to bloom and the wind picked up and carried its candy scent straight to my window.
Slipping on my house slippers and robe, a sense of rightness and relief washed over me—somehow the full night’s sleep had worked everything out in my subconscious and everything was clear: I was meant to be relieved of that job. I could’ve never kept working under Dr. Marshall after that—and anyway, my real mission now was to find Delia. I wasn’t even worried about the money—there was enough now. I had been putting most of my paycheck into savings.
I was just coming down the stairs when the phone rang, yanking me out of my reverie. I answered the lipstick-red wall phone on the landing. It was Hattie; she had just gotten home from her shift.
“Sylvia,” she started, her voice full of concern, “I can’t believe that man fired you. We can do something about it, we can take some kind of action.”
“I don’t care about that, I really don’t,” I said. I didn’t tell her about the meds and how Laverne had ratted me out.
“But Sylv—”
“Hattie, I’ll be fine. But listen, I was going to tell you all of this last night before he fired me, but I drove out to Omen Road yesterday and found the cemetery.”
“You did?” she asked, her voice full of surprise, splitting the word did into two syllables.
“And I saw everything that Delia had told us about—the fire ring, the stone circle, all of it, Hat, it was just like she said. I know they still have her. And I thought, if we both went out there and took some pictures, and came forward, together, that maybe somebody would listen to us.”
But Hattie got all quiet on the other end, so quiet that I could hear the dramatic organ music from Days of our Lives, her favorite soap playing in the background.
“Hattie? We can still save her.”
“I don’t know about all this anymore,” she said in a deflated voice. “I have a family, Sylv.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so I thanked her for checking on me and promised to come out to her place for lunch soon.
I placed the phone back on its cradle and sat on the steps for a while, watching the sunlight stream through the candy colors of the small, round stained-glass window.
The next night was a Friday, the night they had their rituals, and Hattie or no Hattie, I was going back out there.
56
Leah
Thursday, December 7th, 1989
Lucy missing 9 weeks, 6 days
The morning after Thanksgiving, I woke up with a scratchy throat—when I tried to swallow it felt like my tonsils had been stung by a hundred bees. I was cold and shaking with chills but my face felt sunburned.
“It’s probably strep,” Mom said as she pulled the glass thermometer out of my mouth and read it. 104 degrees. “I’ll call Dr. Dixon, see if he can come by.”
Everything was closed for the holidays but by midmorning Dr. Dixon was sitting on the edge of my bed, sticking a wide popsicle stick in my mouth and nodding. “Definitely strep throat. I’ll start her on a course of antibiotics,” he said to Mom.
They stepped out into the hallway to talk, just out of earshot. I was so delirious I thought I heard Lucy’s name being muttered, but I didn’t have the strength to get out of bed to have a closer listen.
The days and nights blurred together and I drifted in and out of murky sleep. I felt closed in, walled off, the cough syrup making me loopy on top of the high fever. I haven’t been to school since before Thanksgiving. Mom took a leave of absence to stay with me and she floated in and out of my room with hot salty soups, Saltine crackers, weak tea, and wet washcloths. I kept asking her about Lucy, but she’d just shake her head—nothing
new, no updates from the sheriff, nothing.
My dreams were all fuzzy until last night. I had that same recurring dream, but this time it was different. It wasn’t wintertime; it was hot and sticky out. I glided down the blacktop road and the sun shifted behind the trees, melting on the horizon, and this time I was able to turn down the red dirt lane. Suddenly it got very dark and the road bumped over a stretch of wild, jagged pastureland and then vanished into a tangle of trees. I could see a fire in the distance and could hear a low humming sound. My body was glazed in sweat and just before I opened my eyes I heard Lucy’s voice, as clear as if she were sitting in the bed next to me, saying, “They only bring us out here at night.”
57
Sylvia
Friday afternoon, I started preparing to go. I wanted to get out there as close to dusk as possible, but early enough so I could find a place to hide my car and walk by foot up to the cemetery.
I found a flashlight and my old camera in the back of the junk drawer and made a trip downtown to the drugstore for a fresh roll of film. I stopped at the service station on the way home and had the man check the pressure on my tires after he filled up the car.
I fixed myself a light supper—a toasted sandwich and a cup of tomato soup—and while I ate, I flipped through the glossy pages of a new seed catalog to try and distract my mind from what the next few hours would hold.
I left the house at four thirty sharp and was turning down the red dirt road by five with half an hour of daylight to spare. It had rained a little the night before and my wheels slid a little on the slippery red clay while I was going up the incline. My eyes scanned the pasture and beyond. It looked like I was all alone.