by Kim Savage
Yvonne heads for a blue chair, its arms rubbed silver. I choose the couch, patterned with faded bouquets that match the drapes. Alice sits as far as possible on the couch’s edge looking weepy. Yvonne abandons the walker and sits with a grunt, lacing her fingers and resting them across her tire-bump of a chest. The chair and its matching ottoman are positioned across from a flat-screen TV hung on the wall behind our heads. On the fireplace mantel framed in brass are photographs of a young Donny, looking away from the camera. Thick glasses appear around the age of nine or ten. The pictures stop around age eleven.
She points above our heads with a bent finger. “Donny bought me that so I could watch my shows.”
Alice makes a tiny noise. I cross my legs and pat Alice’s knee, working up my most GIRLy smile. “What kind of shows do you like to watch?” I say.
“Game shows mostly. At night, I like Raymond. It’s still on, in repeats. The CSI shows. The close-ups, they show up real well on this new screen.”
CSI? Worries about rapists coming door-to-door? Is a hidden camera filming this as a joke? Immediately, I think of the truth in Kellan’s words: it’s like I’m forever being punked.
“I bet,” I say.
“You said your shrink wants you to hear nice things about Donny, not what shows I like.”
The thing shifts again, a quiver in my gut. The speed with which I could snap Yvonne’s chicken neck isn’t such a bad thing to think of, not when you’re just thinking about it. It would take the police a week, maybe more, to notice anything amiss. Even the postman knows Mrs. Jessup never collects her mail, just lets it pile up in rain-soaked wads in her mailbox, and if you don’t have a car, you’re basically a shut-in, so nobody’s out looking for you, and those Peapod bags near the front door mean food gets delivered, so she must barely leave the house, probably doesn’t leave the house, there isn’t even a pet, no animal to feed, at least not now that Donny’s gone, hardy-har-har …
“He must have had hobbies.” Alice breaks the silence.
My fingers tingle. I release my grip of the couch arm, letting blood flow back into my fingers. “Right. He liked gaming, isn’t that true?”
“Ack, Donny and his computer!” Yvonne’s eyes go someplace else for a second. “You couldn’t get him away from that thing. He hardly ever left his bedroom. Kept him out of trouble, I figured.”
Alice coughs. I slap her back a smidge harder than necessary.
Yvonne’s head bobs. “What was I saying?”
“You were talking about Donny’s hobbies,” I say. “Did he have other ones, besides gaming?”
“What did you call it? Gaming? He wasn’t playing games. He was working on his computer. That was his job! They paid him big bucks to work from home. He could work in his pajamas and fuzzy slippers, he’d say. It made me feel safe to have him here all day, not going off into Boston, riding the train and getting mugged, or worse. Now every noise I hear sets me on edge, and there’s been a lot of it, those good-for-nothing kids partying in the woods behind the soccer field on Saturday nights. Any one of them knows an old woman lives alone here, they could get it into their drunk minds to break in and steal my TV. You can see the screen flashing through the curtains from Washington Street at night. I told Donny that wasn’t a good spot for it, it’s too tempting for burglars, but Donny insisted. He was trusting.”
I don’t remind her that as a condition of Donny’s parole he probably couldn’t travel as far as Boston. Not that anyone was paying attention to the electronic breadcrumbs left by his monitoring bracelet. I also don’t tell her that Donny hadn’t worked a day since he left GameStop on disability for a back injury. I wonder what Yvonne lives on, cash-wise. Probably some dead husband’s pension. Then I remember not to care.
“Plus his sponsor liked him to stay close,” Yvonne adds.
“His sponsor?” Alice chimes in, before I can.
“Donny got into a little dope problem when he was younger. Typical teenage stuff,” Yvonne says, shaking a gnarled finger at us in turn. “Now don’t you go thinking he was a druggie.”
“Never,” I say. “You said he had a sponsor?”
“From a support group. Narcotics Anonymous. Said they met at the church. Guy would pop in and check on Donny once in a while. But he didn’t need to; Donny’d been clean for years,” she said.
I shift in my seat, barely able to stand it, remembering the joint between Donny’s thick fingers. Alice senses my distress.
“Are you sure he didn’t have to stay close to home because he wore a monitoring ankle bracelet?” Alice says sweetly.
My head snaps. Alice, I mouth.
“You mean the thing on his leg? That was some device his sponsor gave him so that Donny could be in touch immediately if he had the cravings. Some crazy techno-thing. Worked like my Medical Alert pendant. You know: ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’? Donny tried to explain how it worked, but I couldn’t make sense of it. All I know is that he couldn’t take it off. Whatever that guy said to him about drugs, it worked, because Donny was clean and sober, he was.”
“His … sponsor … must have been real broken up about what happened,” I say tentatively.
“Nah. Guy hadn’t been around in years. Guess he knew he’d done his job right,” Yvonne says.
This has to be enough information for Paula. I start to stand and make excuses to leave when Alice, who apparently believes my lie about a therapeutic mission, pipes up:
“That’s impressive, that he was clean and sober. Say, did Donny like to jog? Or bike ride? Maybe go to the gym? Lift weights?” She spits out every unlikely suggestion pertaining to that fat lard until Yvonne finally interjects.
“Donny didn’t waste money on a gym. He liked to hunt. Had a real nice BB gun. Expensive. Saved for it. He liked to hunt birds, squirrels…”
Humans.
“… larger prey too.”
Alice drops her forehead into tented fingers. I kick her.
Yvonne shakes her finger at Alice. “I watch my CSI shows. I know what they say about people who hurt small animals. It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not,” Alice says.
“Donny had a sensitive side too.” Yvonne points at me. “You should know that. He was a real good artist.”
A ping of recognition. My eyes snap into focus.
“What did he like to draw?” Alice asks.
“Well, it varied. When he was little, animals, like dogs, ducks, horses. Then later, fancy ones, like dragons and unicorns and—what do they call those things? Half horse, half man? I can’t think of the word. I guess those last two count as horses. He definitely liked horses.”
“Did he continue to draw? As an adult?” I say.
Yvonne chuckles softly. “Oh yes, he got pretty good, let me tell you. Especially at faces. He could draw real realistic. You know that man who used to be on the PBS channel? The Joy of Painting, that was the show. I can’t remember his name now, but he always talked about ‘happy little clouds’ and ‘happy little trees.’”
“Bob Ross,” Alice says. I stare at her. “My parents loved him. You can still watch him on YouTube.”
“He’d whip those landscapes out in a few short minutes. My husband, Don, never missed him—Bob Ross, that was it. I always said our Donny was better than him. It took Donny longer, but he could capture anyone. Particularly around the mouth.” She rubs her fuzzy chin, lost for a moment.
“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Jessup,” I say. “That’s just the kind of thing my therapist thinks I ought to know. I would love to see some of those sketches. Would that be possible?”
“Well, I suppose Donny can’t mind now, God rest his soul. The whole sunroom is covered in them. Can’t bear to take them down, never mind throw them away. They’ll still be here long after I die, so whoever buys this house after I’m dead and buried will have to decide what to do with them. Might even make them a bit of money; he was that good.” She rises with a squeal of springs and metal. “You first, I’ll tell you w
here to go.”
“I don’t think that will be nec—” Alice starts.
“We’d love to.” I pull Alice up by the wrist. We step past the kitchen into a sunless sunroom. The Tiger Balm gives way to something fetid. Squirrel droppings lie in small black piles in the corners of the room. Alice stretches the front of her jersey over her nose. The walls are paneled in wormy wood with holes among the knots. Spanning the south-facing wall are jalousie windows, slats of glass shut tight by rusted crank-handles. Moisture has overlaid a cataract haze. I rub my shoulders as the cold pours in through the glass.
Behind us, the walker halts. “You’re not even looking at them. Behind you.”
We turn slowly. Framing the door we just stepped through is sketch after sketch, dangling from pushpins tacked into the door frame, a child’s drawings pinned proudly to a kindergarten corkboard. The subjects include the animals that Yvonne described, plus sexy fairies, hobbity things, and warriors, the latter with some Jessup DNA mixed in.
“Not the best spot, but that darn paneling is impossible to stick a tack through. They kept falling down. I’d come in, and they’d all be on the floor. It was like they were sad their maker was gone.”
Another breeze blows through. The sketches sway on their tacks.
I feel Yvonne’s warm breath on the back of my arm. “I wasn’t bragging when I said he was talented, was I?”
I wrap my arms around myself and move away, fighting nausea. “So talented,” I nearly choke. “Are there any other pictures? Perhaps something more recent?”
Yvonne thinks for a minute, chewing something imaginary. “Well, I suppose there’s what he was working on before this mess got started,” she says.
“And where is that?” I am terrified she’s going to say his bedroom. Because there are limits to what Alice will do—limits to what I can do. And we are right up against them. I focus on a sketch at eye level and try to breathe. An ancient hunter holds a rabbit by its feet, its belly lax and long.
“In the dining room. Donny had a whole set-up in there. It’s the only room that gets good light in the whole house, he said. Got mad at me about that, like I could control the sun. Like I’m God.”
Alice laughs, a sound like dolphin chatter.
“It might bother other mothers, fussy-tidy types. But it was fine with me. It’s not like we had fancy dinners or anything, it’s been just us these last twelve years. He’d shut himself in there for hours, even jam rolled-up towels under the French doors. Said he needed ‘ultimate quiet’ so he could concentrate. By that I think he meant my TV—I like it loud, at least twenty-five on the volume.”
“Can you show us?”
“The French doors back down the hall. You go on ahead.”
I walk fast, Alice at my heels.
“We need to go,” she whispers. “Father Carl will be back from dinner at eight.”
I press on the brass door handle. Double doors squeal open to a tiny dining room wallpapered in velvet. Olive drapes still on their rods have been removed from the windows and propped vertically against the wall. Three chairs have been pulled from the table and stacked roughly; the fourth is angled like someone got up and left minutes before. A built-in cabinet with flowery china behind glass is the only piece of furniture besides a table with a sheaf of thick blank paper. To the left of the paper, charcoal sticks lay in perfect size order; to the right is a chamois cloth, a sanding block, a foam brush, a knife. The sweet smell of stale weed lingers. In the far corner is an ashtray filled with seeds and a pack of E-Z Wider rolling papers. The walker creaks up behind us.
“It’s like a memorial,” Alice says quietly.
In front of the chair is a half-completed sketch. A bit of charcoal sits on top of a few tendrils of hair, drawn with heavy, saturated strokes.
Yvonne creaks into the doorway. “Who is the girl in that sketch?” I murmur without turning.
“Why, that’s Donny’s girl,” Yvonne says, out of breath. “He was in love. Said she was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
I stare down at the girl from Liv’s eaves. Thick-lidded eyes stare back, one bigger than the other.
“Is this the last picture Donny ever drew?” I say, facing her now.
Yvonne sniffs and pulls a wad of Kleenex from the pocket of her housecoat, lifting her eyeglasses and dabbing underneath.
“We don’t mean to be insensitive,” Alice says.
“No. I needed to come into this room sometime. Probably better not to do it alone,” Yvonne says.
Alice makes a sympathetic noise. I gaze down, realizing I’m looking at the final version of the sketches in Liv’s eaves, with all the details he had decided were right. The masculine brows and the flat plane of the nose, the shy smile above the undefined chin. This was Donald Jessup’s girlfriend.
“He really was talented,” Alice murmurs.
I pull my eyes away and turn to Yvonne. “Do you know how they met?”
“How they all meet these days. On the computer. Donny was a nice boy, handsome. He took care of himself, a very neat dresser. Just shy. Not great at talking one-on-one. They had a number of things in common, he said.”
“Did you ever meet her?” My voice is strained.
“Naw, Donny was a big boy. He didn’t need my approval. Besides, he said she was shy too.”
Alice lifts her sleeve and taps her watch with one finger.
“My therapist will be real pleased that I know this about Donny. He was a gifted artist,” I say. “But we’ve taken up an awful lot of your time, Mrs. Jessup. We ought to go.”
“It’s kind of you to say that. Not everyone’s so kind no more.” She turns and hoists her walker forward, leaning heavier than before. Her shoulders are round and small and I walk extra slowly, so as not to step on her heels. As I detour into the living room and scoop up my coat, I glance at the photos on the mantel, and find myself wondering if there really is anyone in the world who would notice if Yvonne Jessup disappeared.
As Alice and I let ourselves out, Yvonne stands to the side, looking down and away, head bobbing.
“Is there something else you want to tell us, Mrs. Jessup?” I say.
Yvonne stabs her pocket with her hand looking for another Kleenex. Alice pulls a tissue from her jacket and hands it to her. She blows her nose, a dry squeal, and stuffs the Kleenex away.
She grabs my wrist. “I’m sorry for the way he chased you. In the woods. Donny was never a bad boy. He just got his signals mixed up.”
Signals? Again, the Candid Camera moment. I am supposed to agree with this woman, this still-grieving, delusional woman, that her Donny was confused by my begging and my cries.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I manage, wriggling from her gnarled hand.
“At least he’s with our Lord,” Alice says.
Yvonne looks at Alice sideways. “You know Donny killed himself, right?”
Alice’s jaw falls open, then she snaps it shut. “I mean to say, it’s a good thing, I don’t mean it’s a good thing. I mean, as far as society in general is concerned, it’s a good thing…”
But Yvonne has stopped listening. “The truth is, I don’t know what I believe anymore. Or where Donny is right now. I just know I’d rather he was upstairs.”
“Of course,” Alice says, nodding. “In heaven.”
“I meant in his bedroom!”
I say goodbye and drag Alice down the front steps, feeling our way, because the porch lightbulb is out and the streetlights on Washington Street are dead.
“Girl! Wait,” Yvonne yells, ducking inside. The door swings wide and a yellow glow pulses in her place. We trudge back up the stairs and linger unspeaking for what feels like forever. Finally, the creak-drag of the walker grows loud.
Yvonne hands me a piece of paper. The front of her coat dress is smudged with black charcoal. “Keep this. To remember he was human.”
She slams the door and a lock scrapes on the other side. I stare at the sketch of Donny’s work in progress for a mome
nt before slipping it carefully into my bag. The opening credits of a cop show blast and a blue light glows in the front window. We turn to leave. Across the street opposite and a house down from Alice’s sedan is the black SUV, lights off. A shadowy figure sits in the driver’s seat, head down over the wheel, waiting to exact her agreed-upon request, my half of the bargain. The exclusive post-Mama Jessup interview-interview.
Alice stops. “Hey.” She points. “Is that…?”
I turn to Alice. “I need you to go home now, Alice.”
“What does Paula want?”
To frame the conflict. To do her job.
“To help me.”
ELEVEN
Later
The cabin of Paula’s pristine SUV is hermetically sealed to highway noise. If I start to speak, Paula gently hushes me, telling me I ought to let my conversation with Yvonne marinate, an expression that strikes me as vaguely gross. I sink into my seat, smelling like Yvonne’s Tiger Balm and counting exits, Donny’s unfinished sketch screaming to me from my messenger bag. I’ve already decided I will not be sharing Yvonne’s gift with Paula, not before I confirm what I think I know. At the eighth exit the WFYT News studio rises like a spaceship made of steel and tinted glass. A parking attendant in a booth bundled against the cold waves us in, and then we’re on the move, me rushing to keep up with Paula in her heels that click fast over the cold, contracted pavement. In the lobby, a guard in an office walled with grainy security monitors watches Jeopardy! on the flat-screen in the waiting area. He greets “Miss Paula” with a gold-toothed smile. While Paula asks him about his hospitalized mother, I slip my phone from my pocket to check for texts from Alice telling me our gig is up; from Mom, checking in on me; and, in truth, from Liv. There are none.