by Louise Ure
“I’m not.” She turned and walked away.
I took the papers out to the yard and squatted down next to the post at an unused basketball court. Catherine’s notebook had been small, maybe five-by-eight, with a spiral bind on the side. It was lined paper that showed up in the Xerox as a pearl gray; it might have been pink or eggshell in the original.
Elizabeth Racine could have trusted me with the real notebook. I would have protected and cherished anything of Catherine’s. I wondered if it still smelled like her. I raised the loose papers to my nose. Nothing, of course. Too many degrees of separation. Too many copies of copies of heartbreak.
I slid off the rubber band.
Day one: September 19, it said. Cambria says that it’s important to tell the truth someplace, even if I can’t say it out loud. It won’t go any further. I don’t even have to show it to her.
Catherine had been seeing this therapist, Cambria Styles, since the beginning of the year, but that September date would have been only three weeks before she died, and three weeks after that, Walter Racine would be dead, too.
I’d been glad Catherine was getting help, at first because the divorce had taken such a toll on her, then those last weeks because I thought the therapist could help her come to terms with the abuse I now knew about.
I flipped to the next page. I always wanted the middle name Eloise. Maybe be if I just start using it, it will become real. Catherine Eloise Chandliss.
At first, Catherine had been quiet after a visit to Cambria. Later she came back from her appointments giddy with strength and fortitude. I thought the therapy was helping.
The next entry said: I have mother’s nipples. Not MY mother’s nipples, just breasts that announce I’ve had a child. Huge. Brown. Thumb shaped. A baby’s chew toy. Not that I’d trade Katie for anything. But it would be nice to have the body I had ten years ago. The body Glen fell in love with. Now, if I meet someone new, I can’t lie about who I am. My breasts betray me.
I’d never understood why Glen had left her. I’d heard three different versions from Catherine—all of them blaming him—and was sure there were many more that both sides could have come up with.
As I finished each page, I turned it facedown on the asphalt beside me. The air was still and heavy, no breeze to disturb the pile.
Later pages were a tirade against her aunt and uncle for having taken Glen’s side in the divorce. At least that’s the way she saw it. I hadn’t thought the rest of the family was siding with him as much as they were telling her to learn to get along with him from a distance, for Katie’s sake.
Uncle Walter said that I brought it on myself, she wrote. That I wished Glen away. I’ll show him. I’ll show them all.
Three pages on, I tripped over my own name. Have to tell Jessie, it said. I’ve imagined it for so long that it seems real to me now. All the details. The fear. The anger. Well, the anger was real enough, although not quite the way I told her.
What was not quite the way she’d told me? Did she think that somehow she’d seduced her Uncle Walter, coerced him into molestation? The therapist could have helped her with that. There was no way that Walter Racine would have been able to blame the victim for his crime.
I flipped through more pages. She’d used the diary for any kind of note taking: to-do lists (brownies for Katie’s playdate), appointments (Jessie/12:30 at El Charro) and short bad poems. The last entry was two days before Catherine’s car had plunged into the flooded arroyo.
It’s gone too far. I have to stop it. Jessica, dear friend who believes in me, has taken my cause in hand. She’s stronger than I am. I know she’ll succeed. And then what? I’ll have to live with this lie for the rest of my life. I’m going to show this to Cambria. She’s right. I can’t stop lying to the rest of the world until I stop lying to myself.
Poor Catherine. She had felt somehow responsible for her abuse. What might she have done, if that wall of water in a normally dry arroyo hadn’t taken her life that night? Tell me to back off my campaign against her uncle? Leave town with Katie? The diary made it sound like she’d come to some decision.
I wiped away a tear, and returned to the last page. It was dated the day before Catherine died, and said simply, “I’m going to do it right this time. No more stories. No more lies. I’m going to live in the real world starting now. I wanted to get Uncle Walter in trouble because of how mean he was about Glen. I hope he can forgive me.”
I jumped to my feet—every nerve end on fire, the breath frozen in my chest—and charged the razor-wire fence in front of me. A siren shrieked, angry voices sputtered and cawed through a loudspeaker, but I climbed, fingers clawing at the diamond grids in the wire, higher, higher, to reach enough air so that I could breathe. My vision dimmed until there was just a pinprick of light ahead of me. Suddenly, strong hands grabbed my legs and I was thrown backward to the ground, then tackled—face pressed into the asphalt—and handcuffed.
Dear God, what had I done? I’d killed a man for no good reason at all. And then, God help me, I’d set about getting away with it.
My legs wouldn’t hold me, so four Corrections Officers dragged me across the yard by my manacled arms. I watched, struck dumb with regret and shame, as a fifth officer gathered the loose pages of the diary and tamped them back into a pile.
My sin, written out in longhand.
Chapter Thirty
Eight days passed in a cloud of recriminations and gut-shredding loss. Realizing that the image in the mirror is the monster and not the savior you’ve built yourself up to be. Recognizing that you truly belong in that jail cell for the rest of your life.
They weren’t calling my run at the fence an escape attempt, but I spent the next week first in the medical ward, then in an isolation cell so they could watch me. Every breath caused pain. They said I’d cracked a rib, but I knew it to be my newly burdened conscience, sparking to life every time I inhaled.
Raisa came by and expected a smile when she said, “I may be able to get you out of here.”
I toyed with the ragged sleeve of my jailhouse scrubs. “How?”
“The DNA results came in. You matched the pool of blood in the garage, but the cops also proved that Carlos had been dead almost a week by then. That, plus no witness ID, means they can’t hold you for Carlos’s murder.”
“No witness ID?” Sabin had been so confident after that lineup.
Raisa shook her head. “The neighbor didn’t ID you. Said she couldn’t be sure. She recognized the car but said she only got a look at the back of the driver’s head.”
“They’ll still hold me for the other guy—Reuben whatever.”
“Maybe not. They can prove you were there, but not that it was the same time Reuben Sanchez was killed. The time of death is too big a window.”
I nodded distractedly. Why hadn’t the cops followed up on the tip to check on the knife in Chaco’s car? That would have given them another suspect they could tie to Reuben’s death. Maybe Lisa’s mom never made the call.
“Sabin will probably stall,” Raisa said. “Use the arrest warrant as a lever to get you to talk about who else was there that night. You could be out of here today if you told him.”
I shook my head.
“Okay. Hold tight. He doesn’t have much of a case left. I’ll see if I can get a judge to dismiss.”
I shrugged, remembering the revelations in Catherine’s diary. If her words were true, I didn’t deserve to be set free.
It took another week for the dismissal to come though. When Corrections Officer Delta came to get me at two o’clock the next Friday afternoon, I handed over the scrubs and plastic shoes and they gave me back Catherine’s diary and twenty-nine dollars from my account. Damn. More money than when they booked me. But I had more crimes to my credit now, too.
I walked out to the road and waited for a bus back into town; back to join the living. First thing on the agenda was some real food. The kind that makes you chew before you swallow. Second, find Catherine’s therap
ist and get the truth.
My truck was still in front of Bonita’s house. I gathered up the flyers and junk mail that had arrived during my three weeks in jail, tossed them in the trash, then took a long, hot shower, trying to wash away my recriminations as well as the jailhouse funk.
I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant for a plate of tongue tacos, then headed east toward Cambria Styles’s office.
The building was one of three small bungalows on a cul-de-sac behind the Tucson Mall. Oleanders bloomed head high against the windows. It was close to five o’clock; I didn’t know if the therapist would still be there.
I crunched up the gravel drive and had raised my hand to knock when I read the sign on the door, PLEASE COME IN AND REMAIN IN THE WAITING ROOM. I’LL COME GET YOU WHEN I’M FREE. I let myself into a pleasant, quiet waiting area that contained a small secretary’s desk, three upholstered armchairs, and a glass-topped coffee table. Sierra Club, Arizona Highways, and Field & Stream magazines fanned out across the glass. Nothing there to stir a patient’s frantic mind.
I didn’t have to wait long. At ten minutes to five I heard a door open and footsteps across the front gravel. I peeked through the blinds and oleander leaves to see a walrus-shaped man trudging toward a black car at the curb. The interior door to the office opened and Cambria Styles caught me peering out.
“Did we have an appointment?”
Styles hadn’t changed much in the three years since I’d seen her—she still had dishwater-blond hair, poker-straight almost to her waist, and sallow skin like she was an underwater creature. I reintroduced myself.
“I was a friend of Catherine Chandliss’s. We met when I dropped her off here a couple of months before she died.”
Her eyes widened as she remembered the other associations with my name. Catherine’s friend, accused of killing her uncle. There would be no handshake.
“How can I help you?” she said, taking a step back. Clearly the woman thought I needed therapeutic help of one kind or another.
“Have you ever seen this before?” I held out the banded stack of pages from Catherine’s diary.
“What is it?” She stripped off the rubber band and flipped through it.
“Catherine’s notes. The ones you told her to write to tell herself the truth.”
“I didn’t think she’d even…” Her voice faded as she continued to read. She seemed fascinated by the pages. If she’d ever seen them before, she was putting on a good act.
“I want to know if what she wrote is the truth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Is this the truth—or is it some kind of therapy game? That’s all I want to know.”
“I couldn’t possibly…without studying it…Catherine was—”
“Read it.”
Styles looked at her watch, then tapped the pages back into a stack on the desk. “It will take some time. Why don’t you make an appointment for next week and then we can—”
“I’ll wait.” I settled myself into one of the upholstered chairs.
She sighed and took the swivel chair behind the desk. She read a few pages, then stopped at one of the sections I’d marked with two dark vertical lines in the margin. “Excuse me a moment. I want to check something.” She retreated to her private office and came back a moment later with a file in her hand, then continued reading.
I studied photos of the Grand Canyon and trout. An unseen clock ticked like a loud, slow metronome.
After twenty minutes, she slapped her own file shut and restacked Catherine’s loose pages.
“You were tried for the murder of Catherine’s uncle.”
“Yes.” No need to go into the equivocation about being found not guilty.
“And you want to know if she was ever really molested, is that it?”
I nodded. I wasn’t breathing. Once again waiting for the verdict.
“What difference would that make? Either you killed a man or you didn’t. Either he was guilty or he was innocent. What are you going to do with the information?”
I tried to shrug, but the tension kept my shoulders tight up around my ears. “I have to know. Was Catherine molested? Was her daughter in danger?”
She put down the pencil she’d been chewing on and steepled her fingers.
“I’ll tell you what I told the police back then, when they were following up on your accusation about Mr. Racine. In all our months of therapy, Catherine never gave me any indication that her uncle had abused her. She never mentioned it.”
“Maybe it takes more than a few months of therapy to get around to it.”
“Sometimes. After you were arrested, I actually wondered if you’d seen something I hadn’t.”
“Had I?” I’d heard Catherine’s accusations in the weeks before she died. And I had seen Walter Racine with Katie in the playground. Wasn’t that proof of abuse?
She tapped the diary with a forefinger. “Not according to Catherine.”
I shut the front door quietly behind me. I’d forgotten to take Catherine’s notes, but that didn’t matter. I’d memorized all the important parts. They were words I’d never forget. A death sentence.
I got back to Bonita’s house and plugged in my cell phone. The battery had gone dead in the Corrections Center property closet and it wasn’t until it started charging that I heard the beeps for waiting messages.
No one had called during my early days in jail. Guillermo had called twice today. The last message, listed at 2:30 p.m., was from my father “Jessie, Raisa told us you’re getting out today. Do you need a ride home? Deke’s here at the house with me. Call me when you get this message.”
My fingers traced the familiar pattern of the buttons.
“I’m back at Bonita’s house, Dad.”
“We’ll be right over.”
I wasn’t sure if I could keep up a happy façade around him. And Deke hadn’t done me any favors. He’d stood by and watched Len Sabin railroad me into an arrest with insufficient evidence.
“No need. Everything’s okay.”
“Ten minutes.”
It was actually fifteen, but by the time they got there I hadn’t had a chance to do much more than throw out the spoiled food in the refrigerator and wipe the worst of the dust and grime from the few remaining pieces of furniture.
“I’m glad they dropped the charges,” my father said, enveloping me in a bear hug.
“I’m glad to see you home,” Deke said over my father’s shoulder.
No thanks to you, I wanted to say. Where were you when Len Sabin was filling out that arrest warrant? “Do you know any more about the kids?” I asked instead.
“Not yet.” Deke ducked his head and addressed his comments to the floor. “We picked up Ricky Lamas but he’s not talking.”
“It’s got something to do with Darren Markson and those day-care centers. I know it does. Have you checked them out? And did you test that car seat?”
“We got DNA from the seat, but we’ve got nothing to match it to. Jesus, Jessie. Don’t you know when to butt out? Didn’t three weeks in jail teach you anything?”
I didn’t have any evidence I hadn’t told him about except a wet kiss between two women in a parking lot, and that was hardly proof of murder. “Those day-care centers are the only things that tie everything—Markson, Felicia, Carlos Ochoa, Reuben Sanchez—together.”
“How do we know Reuben Sanchez had anything to do with the day-care centers?”
“We don’t,” I admitted.
“Maybe the whole thing is drug related, and Darren Markson was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Deke suggested.
“But Felicia worked for his attorney. That’s not just a coincidence.”
“Enough already!” my father interrupted. “We came by to see if you were okay, Jessie. Maybe go get some dinner.”
“I’m okay, Dad. Thanks. I just want to be alone tonight.”
I spotted a ballerina and a tiny skeleton through the open doorway, faces covered wit
h masks and makeup, open bags in their arms. “Trick or treat!”
My heart caught in my throat. Jesus, it was Halloween. The third anniversary of my crime. But the first day that I truly knew to call it such a thing. Three years ago, I, too, had been a masked reveler on the street, but in my case, a killer hiding in a white sheet.
“I’m sorry, kids. I forgot. I don’t have any candy.”
Their shoulders slumped, losers at this new game their first time out. They were turning back toward their mother at the curb when my dad called out, “Here, I’ve got something for you!” He dropped two quarters into each bag.
“Thanks, Dad.” He saw the smile, but also the sadness in my eyes.
“I know this is a hard time of year for you, Jessie. Catherine’s accident…having to deal with the police. But you’ve got to put it all behind you.” Unwavering in his support, he misunderstood the reason for my grief.
“Does Mom have the altar done yet?” Although she wouldn’t light the Day of the Dead candles until tomorrow, I was sure she’d be populating the shrine by now.
“Almost.”
Would I ever have a place on my mother’s table of remembrance? Maybe she’d find my old adoption papers, fold them small, and tuck them between two candles at the back of the table. Maybe a bullet casing to memorialize the killer I’d become.
I walked my father out to the front porch and this time allowed Deke a hug as well. They got in the car and left it idling at the curb until a flock of small Halloween superheroes ran past them and reached the sidewalk safely.
Sighing, I stooped to pick up a palm-sized rock at my feet. It was a broken shard of agate, the dull brown exterior belying the shiny gray swirls inside. There was a notch on one side just big enough for my thumb and a razor-sharp ribboned edge, like lethal taffy, on the other. If I held it there, thumb cradled into the depression, I could be a cave woman, hollow out the trunk of a tree for a canoe, scrape the skin of a vanquished animal. Or I could rake that edge across my own flesh—a slow, purposeful stripe of pain—and make all the regret disappear.