Until it wasn’t.
13
On Monday morning, Annie overslept. She was late for school, but not worried about it. She had near-perfect attendance, and valedictorian-level grades, so arriving twenty minutes late would not be a serious problem.
The serious problem—and the reason she overslept in the first place—was Connie. As of late Sunday evening, her parents had declared her a missing person.
Saturday morning, Connie told them she was going to meet Parker, and hadn’t said where, but that wasn’t unusual. Her parents cut her a lot of slack her senior year, and Parker always presented himself to Connie’s folks as a responsible young man who was very much in love with their daughter. They were used to her going places with him and staying out late.
Sunday, Connie didn’t show up at the family breakfast table. That wasn’t particularly surprising either, because she spent a lot of time at the library during the week or at the diner or the coffee shop on the weekends. Sometimes she took off unannounced, especially if she had a paper due, or an exam to study for. Connie was as serious about her grades as Annie. And when she was studying, Connie often lost track of time and ignored her phone. Then sometimes Parker would show up, and she’d go off with him, so it wasn’t unusual for her to not answer text messages, either.
By late Sunday afternoon, though, Connie’s folks began to worry. They first called Parker’s parents. He had told them he was going off for the weekend to visit a friend a few miles away and would stay overnight Saturday, and maybe Sunday, then go directly to school. He’d done that a few times before, and they knew his friend well enough. He’d said nothing whatsoever about taking Connie with him, however.
So four short phone calls later—one to Parker’s friend’s house, one each to the diner and coffee shop, and then one to Annie—Connie’s parents called the police. Not only had Connie not been seen in any of her usual places, Parker had lied about visiting his friend.
Annie’s parents refused to let her stay home from school Monday. There was nothing she could do anyway. It was in the hands of the authorities.
At 8:05, Annie stepped through the school doors into the main hall, silent and empty as usual when everyone else was in class, then headed to the main office. She’d explain, get a pass, and do the best she could to focus on her classes.
“Assembly is in the auditorium,” Mrs. Winkle, the principle’s secretary, at first not looking up. “You’re late and you need to—” Then she looked up to see Annie. She came around her desk and hugged her. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry about what, Mrs. Winkle?” The older woman gently took Annie’s hand.
“Come on, dear. I’ll walk you down.”
She led Annie out of the office and down the hall toward the auditorium, patting Annie’s hand and making cooing noises as they walked, but wouldn’t tell Annie what was going on.
Once in the auditorium, Ellen rushed up to Annie, her face flushed and wet with tears. As Ellen crushed Annie in a hug, Mrs. Winkle patted Annie’s back and whispered, “I’ll leave you with your friends now. I’m so sorry, dear. It’s such a shame.” Then, she was gone, and Annie struggled to extricate herself from Ellen.
“Ellen, what is it?” Ellen could only shake her head, her face too crumpled to speak. Annie let her cry, holding Ellen close as she trembled. Finally, Ellen composed herself and took Annie’s hands. “What, Ellen? What is going on?” Annie asked again.
Ellen’s face crumpled once more, but she managed to whimper, “Connie’s dead,” then dissolved into more tears.
Annie looked around, watching the faces of the students filing in. Some splotchy with tears, others looking shocked, even more bewildered. Connie’s words just hadn’t registered. Then her eyes found the stage. Behind the podium—on the huge screen that had been lowered—was Connie’s class picture. Under that, the dates of her birth and another date. Saturday’s date. The date of Connie’s—
Annie let go of Ellen and stumbled, trancelike, toward the front of the room. She stood, looking up at the screen, at her best friend’s face, trying to process the implication of the dates. Connie’s birthday, June twenty-seventh, a little over a month away. Then Saturday’s date. It still made no sense. Annie turned to find the entire room looking at her, silent, their faces a crush of sadness and confusion. At that, she lost it.
“What the hell is going on?!” she shouted at the crowd. Mrs. Greene, the school nurse, materialized beside her, took her hand and led her to a seat at the back of the room. Ellen and her other friends had gathered in the back as well. As Mrs. Greene spoke quietly to her, Annie watched Dr. Harrington, the school principle, walk to the podium. He began to speak about loss, contending with difficulties, triumph, and the goodness of Connie Baker. In the back, Annie heard some of his speech and some of what Mrs. Greene was saying. All the while, she looked at her friends, searching from face to face for some explanation.
“—someone called Sheriff Grimes,” Dr. Harrington broke through. “—reported a body—” Oh my God. “—woods near the beach. When they responded, they found—”
Annie shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She stood, pushed the nurse away. “What?!” she demanded of the room, suddenly frantic. “Where is Connie?!” She tried to move into the aisle but was gathered back and held by Ellen and the nurse. “Where is she?” she begged. Ellen tried to hug her, but Annie pushed her off. “Stop hugging me!” She turned and shouted at the principal. “Where the hell is Connie Baker?!”
Everyone turned to look at Annie. Ellen stepped back, and Mrs. Greene stood up. She took both of Annie’s hands in hers, looked into her eyes, and spoke as calmly as she could.
“Annie, honey, listen to me. Connie Baker is dead.” Annie gripped the nurse’s hands. “They found her body in the woods this morning.” Annie began to hyperventilate. “She was raped—”
No.
“— and her body partially burned.”
No, no, no.
“Annie, honey,” the nurse looked into her eyes and spoke carefully, “Connie’s dead.”
That got through. Annie collapsed into her seat, too much in shock to cry. Her friends huddled around her as Dr. Harrington continued.
“—a life cut off in its prime—”
Annie stood abruptly.
“—grief counseling will be made available—”
She scanned the room, her face ashen.
“Where is Parker?” Mrs. Greene gently turned Annie’s face to meet her eyes.
“Annie?”
“What, Mrs. Greene?”
“Honey, Parker Levitt is in jail.”
14
“Just what am I supposed to say to you, Dr. Moore?”
Annie slumped in a chair facing a desk in a makeshift office in her school. She had avoided this room and this man for two full weeks, but her demeanor had changed enough that her parents became concerned. When Annie refused to see a private therapist, the school authorities intervened.
“First off, don’t call me doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not. I’m a social worker with a master's, not a doctorate.”
Annie didn’t even think he looked old enough to be out of college, let alone have a graduate degree. He sported an unruly mop of hair that brushed his collar, stubble on his chin and round tortoise-shell glasses. He wore black jeans, a plain black T-shirt and a jacket but no tie. He is, she thought suddenly, very attractive on several levels. But no way would she let that thought stick. She’d learned her lesson about good-looking long-haired guys who dressed in black.
“So, what exactly am I supposed to call you?” she said, crossing her arms.
“Please call me Dean.”
Annie blanched. Dean. That not-quite déjà vu she’d felt when she read the opening paragraph of On the Road hit her, and then the words came rushing back. I first met Dean…serious…miserably weary breakup…feeling that everything was…
“Dead,” she said aloud.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you say?” Annie frowned and shook her head.
“Nothing.” Dean didn’t believe her, but he knew not to press. Not just then, anyway. In spite of his relative youth, he had a good deal of experience. He had been a grief counselor at several schools where there had been either mass shootings or suicides. He was well-respected in his field, and the school was lucky to have him. So when Annie waved him off, he didn’t ask her to explain. She tried to regain her composure by resuming a defensive attitude.
“So, Dean, how does this work?” Her tone was caustic. Dean searched the file to find her name.
“Well, Anne, first off, it doesn’t work if you’re going to be a snotty bitch about the whole thing.” She chuckled then sat up in her chair. She unfolded her arms, then primly folded her hands in her lap, smiled and batted her lashes. He laughed at her physical sarcasm and glanced through her file. He took his time, turning pages, examining her history, then looked up.
“I see you get top grades, are involved in extra-curricular activities, come from a good home, you have pretty healthy relationships—”
“Healthy relationships apart from the murderer, you mean.”
“Healthy apart from the murderer,” he echoed. “Other than that, no trouble, no detention.” He looked up. She shrugged.
“I’m just a squeaky clean, all-American girl. Just like those collectable dolls.”
“A squeaky clean all-American girl who was questioned by the police as a possible material witness.” He watched carefully for her reaction.
Annie Stewart had been through the wringer. Technically, she was the last one to see Connie. The girls had gone to the bank to draw a check for part of Annie’s savings so Connie could begin to make plans to leave town. Then there was the business of all the things Parker said to Annie at her house, in particular his insinuation that, if Connie were out of the way, Annie would agree to be with him. That made her, other than his parents, the last one to see Parker. If not for Parker’s father, who intervened on Annie’s behalf, even though he wasn’t a criminal attorney, Annie would have been held at police headquarters indefinitely. But Annie had been freed of all culpability because Parker Levitt made some very serious mistakes.
First, the rape kit done on Connie’s body not only confirmed rape, but the condition of her body fit the legal definition of aggravated assault. Second, Connie happened to have Annie’s check in her wallet, which Parker took, then idiotically tried to cash. Because of the amount, that action alone was enough for a felony charge. Then Parker Levitt had made—repeatedly—the most classic mistake of all: He talked.
He’d headed west, intending to emulate his hero, Kerouac, by traveling and writing. But he’d also, just like Kerouac, started drinking, and Parker couldn’t hold his liquor. Once the police found his trail, it didn’t take long to learn he’d stopped at no less than four different bars. He hadn’t been reported though, because no one believed a cocky nineteen-year-old’s “confession” was anything more than drunken bravado.
Dean knew all this, but Annie didn’t. All she knew was that her best friend had been killed by a boy that she’d been in love with, and because of her relationship with him, she’d been considered accountable somehow. She knew life in her little town would never be the same. And she knew Connie’s murder—by Parker—would be a defining point for the rest of her life.
She also knew the best thing for her to do for herself was to continue to attend class, do homework, stay active, and above all, to not retreat into a shell. Because she’d done all that, in spite of being grilled by the police, she didn’t see why the school had decided she needed grief counseling. Annie had never been one to make waves though, so here she was. But her time with the police accusations had jaded her, so she wasn’t about to make this counselor’s job easy.
“Well, I didn’t help plan Connie Baker’s murder, but I did smoke a joint at the New Year’s dance,” she baited him. “Do you want to name of my dealer? So you know I’m serious about getting better?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Are you sick?” That took her aback. Not just Dean’s question, but the complete lack of condescension in his tone.
“No, I’m not...” she struggled, “sick. A guy who I... he... just murdered my best friend, and I was almost charged with being an accomplice. I’m supposed to be devastated, I suppose, and on a suicide watch or something, right?”
“Do you want to die?” His bluntness shocked her. She could only shake her head. “Okay then, no need for suicide watch. What else?” She frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what else?” He closed the file and took off his glasses. “What are you feeling? Come on, you’ve seen enough TV, your share of after-school specials, you know the drill.”
“Are you being serious? You seem awfully glib about this.”
“Do you want to be here, Anne? Sitting in this room talking with me because you want to, or are you just being forced? From what I see in your file, and the way you’re presenting yourself, especially from what I’ve heard of how you handled yourself with the police, you look fine. You appear to be better than most, actually. They just want to cry and tell me how their lives are out of control even though they barely knew Connie. Tragedy brings out the weird, self-involved side of people, doesn’t it?” She just blinked. He continued.
“Look, in my professional opinion, you’re doing well. You’ll grieve, and then you’ll move on. You don’t want to be here, and you don’t feel you need to be here, right? Just fulfilling a duty.” He raised his eyebrows but got no response. “Good for you. I’ll tell the school board we talked, you cried, and you’re handling this in a perfectly normal, acceptable fashion. You’re not hiding any deep fears or rage, and you don’t have to come back. Okay?” She hesitated then stood. She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. He just put her file back in the box, smiled and nodded. She turned and headed toward the door.
“Oh, one thing, before you go.” She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “A guy who what?” Annie turned and looked at him. “You said ‘my best friend was murdered by a guy who’ and then you changed direction. So, a guy who...what?” Her breathing quickened, so to hide it, she dropped her eyes but kept her hand on the knob. He waited. She stayed silent. “Okay, then,” he waved a hand in dismissal, “it’s not important I guess. Never mind. Have a nice life, Anne.” He settled his glasses on his nose and pulled another file from the box. She stood there another moment, then felt compelled to speak.
“A guy who I was, at one time…” When he didn’t look up, she continued, “I thought I was in love with.” He continued reading.
“Well, that might be something,” he said without looking at her, “so you come back and chat about that. If you want to.” She waited another moment and then opened the door.
“You know, maybe there is something else, Anne.” She turned. He was still looking down. “You said you got involved with this boy because of a book.” She nodded. “Which version?”
“Version?”
“That book was originally written on individual pages, then taped together to form a scroll. It’s sort of a free-association journal.” He turned a page in the file.
“Free association? What, like analysis?”
“More like self-analysis. I’ve found that to be helpful from time to time.” He turned another page, then looked at his watch. He tapped it then looked up at her apologetically. “Sorry, Anne. I’ve got someone else coming in a few minutes. Nice meeting you, though.” He gave a little wave. She began to wave in return, but he put his head down and went back to reading. She stood looking at him a moment, then went out into the hall, intending to go to her next class.
Halfway down the hallway, though, she leaned against the wall. She thought about the session. What she’d said. How she’d said it. What he’d said. What he hadn’t said. And then she thought about journaling. How that was a pretty interesting suggestion. And su
ddenly, the first line popped into her head.
When I first met Dean Moore, she decided to write, I was recovering from my best friend’s murder.
15
Annie found herself on a west-bound train in the draining light of day. Black streaks gored the blood-red sunset as she reclined in a comfortable seat, pen in hand, journal in her lap, watching it all go by. But today, the familiar landscape seemed like scenery in a puppet show. Trees and farms, houses with above-ground pools presided over by raised porches, all against a stereotypical Hollywood sunset, looked like black paper cut-outs. It all looked…
Fake, she wrote in her journal. It wasn’t easy to write on a moving train. But Dean Moore’s suggestion of journaling as a way to look inside—to self-analyze—had turned out to be a real help, even though sometimes it was seriously disconcerting.
A Small Town Dream Page 9