The Church of Dead Girls

by Stephen Dobyns

  The Malloys’ living room was a mixture of modern and colonial—overstuffed chairs and sofas, fabrics and drapes showing settlers’ tools, end tables made to resemble butter churns. Almost the only noise was the ticking of the grandfather clock. People spoke in whispers. Now and then the phone rang, usually neighbors calling with worried questions or to express concern. Roberta Fletcher took the calls. She was a large no-nonsense woman who spoke to the callers as briefly as possible. She couldn’t see why people should keep bothering the Malloys in their time of trouble.

  A tall man, Dr. Malloy was sandy-haired and going a little bald, with a full red moustache that he liked to stroke from the middle with his thumb and index finger. He wore dark suits and looked every inch a doctor. He had light-blue eyes. His hands were large and pink, nearly hairless, with freckles on the backs. He always smelled of soap. I went to his office several times for flu shots but spoke to him only briefly. I suppose I have always felt somewhat uncomfortable with doctors. Some are so doctorlike that they appear to have no other personality. One wonders if people choose these professions in order to assume the profession’s stereotypical personality. In this way, Allen Malloy resembled Captain Percy.

  Dr. Malloy sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and waited. He didn’t cry, he didn’t speak. Now and then his wife blew her nose. The children looked frightened. Paul Leimbach kept blowing his nose. Donald Malloy sat in the rocker chewing on his thumbnail. Occasionally he would shake his head.

  One must infer their thoughts. Without doubt, each was speculating on what could have happened to Sharon. She was a young lady who was always on time, always let her parents know where she was going and generally behaved like a responsible adult. Now the ugly possibilities were probably being weighed against the benign ones. As more time passed, the benign possibilities grew less likely. Clearly, Dr. Malloy was thinking awful things and with each such thought he would say to himself, But that’s impossible. Then he would realize it wasn’t impossible. Then he would tell himself, But maybe nothing happened to Sharon. Then he would see that something had obviously happened. At home he often called his daughter Little Pigeon and he could hardly think of that name without tears coming to his eyes.

  Sharon’s disappearance made terrible things plausible. Perhaps she had been kidnapped and the kidnappers would call. Perhaps she had been beaten. Perhaps she had been raped or murdered. And the irony that the Malloys had moved to Aurelius to get away from the dangers of the city was lost on no one.

  Even Dr. Malloy realized that had they stayed in Rochester Sharon would be safe. He would imagine a nameless hand reaching for her, grabbing her, tearing her clothes: his slim fourteen-year-old girl whom he had seen at breakfast that morning. The dog had been jumping around. Millie had burned her toast. Frank couldn’t find his biology book. And then Dr. Malloy had gone: a Monday morning in mid-September with just a hint of frost. He had driven to his office. He had seen patients and made the rounds at the hospital. He had eaten lunch with his colleague Dr. Richards. He had seen more patients. Around four o’clock the police had arrived. Did he know the whereabouts of his daughter? And then it turned out that she had disappeared.

  The family spent the evening waiting together and each time the phone or doorbell rang their hearts leapt. But it was never news about Sharon. At some point after midnight the children were sent to bed. Then Dr. Malloy gave his wife a sedative. Donald Malloy embraced his brother and went home. The Leimbachs left. Around three in the morning Roberta Fletcher went home. My cousin Chuck fell asleep in a chair. Now and then he woke and changed his position. Each time, he saw Dr. Malloy sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Chuck said he would have spoken but he didn’t know what to say.

  Tuesday came and went and there was no news. The Malloy and Leimbach children stayed home from school. Dr. Malloy canceled his appointments or turned them over to Dr. Richards. He went to City Hall and then to Potterville. He saw Houari Chihani brought in and then released. Of course he knew that Chihani’s Citroën had been seen on Adams Street. Several TV newspeople tried to talk to him, but Chief Schmidt gave him a room in City Hall where he wouldn’t be bothered. Through the window he saw Aaron being brought in, then Jesse and Shannon Levine, Harriet Malcomb, and the others, even Barry Sanders. Some he knew. He had treated Barry for colds and a variety of minor ailments, because Barry had quite a bit of his mother’s hypochondria. And then Dr. Malloy saw them taken over to Potterville. Constantly, he asked if there was any news, but there never was.

  At least a hundred men and women, volunteers and state police, scoured the fields around Adams Street. Dogs were brought in and given articles of Sharon’s clothing for her scent. They found nothing. And this increased the speculation that Sharon had been taken away in an automobile. Neighbors who had already been asked if they had seen anything were interviewed again. TV and radio announcements called for information relating to Sharon Malloy. Several people responded who had spotted Sharon on her bike, but nobody had actually seen anything happen.

  Dr. Malloy helped search the fields and his brother, Donald, went with him. Donald was weeping. Dr. Malloy’s face was stiff and drawn. They walked side by side through the brush. Donald had a stick that he used to push aside branches and to poke under things. When it got dark both returned to City Hall. They found out that the members of the IIR had been charged with vandalism and released on their own recognizance. They learned that Aaron was in jail in Potterville but hadn’t been charged in connection with anything related to Sharon. At some point Percy interviewed the entire Malloy and Leimbach families. Around eight o’clock Dr. Malloy and his brother went back to the doctor’s house. The two boys who had been off at college came home and there was another evening of waiting. Again Chuck Hawley slept in the armchair. Dr. Malloy spent the night on the couch.

  “He didn’t seem to sleep at all,” Chuck said. “At least he was awake every time I looked.”

  On Wednesday came news of various sightings. Sharon was seen in New York City. She was seen in Albany and Rochester and Buffalo and Syracuse. She was seen walking down a country road near Plattsburg. Each report caused a burst of optimism that disappeared when the sighting turned out to be false. Each disappointment felt worse than the one before. And the news of each sighting was met with less and less hope.

  Aaron was released from jail in Potterville and returned to Aurelius. Chihani was brought down to City Hall a second time and again released. By Wednesday afternoon so much news was coming in about Sharon—all of it incorrect—that volunteers began to man the telephones. Her photograph was pinned up everywhere.

  That evening Dr. Malloy went home and again the Malloys, the Leimbachs, and Donald waited in the living room for news. Neighbors sent food. Once more Chuck Hawley slept in the armchair. Dr. Malloy remained on the couch by the phone but this night, according to Chuck, he slept a little.

  On Thursday the Independent appeared with Houari Chihani’s comments. “Perhaps she went off willingly,” he was quoted as saying. “The rapist is a victim as much as the person he rapes. . . . The reason why he rapes is more important than the rape itself.”

  Dr. Malloy read it and shook his head uncomprehendingly.

  On the front page was a picture of Sharon, the one showing her standing by the garage door holding a baseball glove. She had been playing catch with her brother Frank. Dr. Malloy had taken the picture. There were interviews with Sharon’s classmates. “She’s the most wonderful friend I ever had,” said Joyce Bell. “She never got angry, she was always laughing,” said Meg Shiller. “I wouldn’t say she was my best student,” said Lou Hendricks, who had Sharon in social studies, “but she was one of the best and she was certainly a pleasure to have in class.”

  Members of Sharon’s family were quoted. “We have no idea what could have happened,” said her brother Frank. “When I saw her on Monday morning, everything was fine.”

 
“If somebody hurt her,” said her uncle Donald, “then, I don’t know, I’d like to kill that person. She’s a saint, a wonderful little girl.”

  Little Millie was quoted as saying, “I want my sister back.”

  Franklin had also talked to Captain Percy. “At this moment we have hundreds of officers working on the case. Thousands of people are looking for her. We still hope she’ll turn up.”

  There was a lot of open country around Aurelius and hundreds of people searched it: troops of Boy Scouts, members of the National Guard, volunteers. One saw groups of schoolchildren exploring the woods in Lincoln Park or the surrounding fields. Both sides of the Loomis River were searched from Hamilton to Norwich. People explored Henderson State Park, the nearby lakes, and the quarry. Students missed school in order to help but there was no thought of penalizing them. There was the idea, a fantasy surely, that if everyone worked together, Sharon would be found alive and well. And if every square inch of the county was searched, then certainly she would be discovered. Even the phrase “every square inch” kept being repeated, as if not to say it violated a principle of magic. The fact that Sharon had disappeared so completely, into thin air, as Ryan had said, made magic seem possible. Before the whole business was over, psychics were consulted and people with reputed healing powers. I believe at one point even a dowser was brought in, although not by the family or the authorities.

  There was another effect of Sharon’s disappearance: starting on Wednesday there was a minor traffic jam at the beginning and end of school. Many children walk or ride their bikes; now most were being driven. Something had happened to Sharon Malloy. Who was to say it couldn’t happen to someone else? Chief Schmidt hired two more policemen and one saw state troopers driving around everywhere.

  The same issue of the Independent that carried the unfortunate remarks of Houari Chihani also had a story about the members of the IIR being charged with the vandalism in Homeland Cemetery in August. This didn’t improve their popularity. Jason Irving withdrew from school and moved back to his parents’ house in Kingston. Of course he had to receive police permission to do this. The others didn’t quite disappear but they tried not to attract attention to themselves. The exceptions were Houari Chihani, whose red car was still to be seen around town, and Aaron McNeal, who didn’t change his habits in any way.

  The police were still trying to find out where Aaron had been that Monday afternoon and evening. There was talk of a legal hearing so that if Aaron still refused to disclose his whereabouts he could be charged with contempt. I know for a fact that the county prosecutor was working on this.

  Saturday afternoon Sadie helped me rake leaves in my front yard. I was keeping an eye on her because Franklin was working.

  “Aaron didn’t have anything to do with Sharon’s going away,” she told me. She wore a red jacket and her hair was loose.

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because he didn’t know her and even if he had he wouldn’t have taken her. He’s not like that.”

  “Like what?” I had stopped raking by this point.

  “Like the sort of person who would steal a child.”

  “And what’s that sort of person like?” I wasn’t baiting Sadie; I wanted to know what she would say.

  “Mean. Aaron’s not mean.”

  “What do you think happened to Sharon?”

  “You know how people steal dogs to sell to laboratories? Maybe something like that happened to Sharon. Maybe she was taken for some kind of experiment. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I keep thinking it’d be better if she was dead, because if she’s not then she’s probably being tortured.”

  “Maybe she’ll turn up safe and sound,” I suggested.

  Sadie looked at me sternly. “You don’t believe that.”

  Nineteen

  Franklin Moore’s energetic nature was severely put to the test by Sharon’s disappearance. Where he had worked fifty hours a week, he now worked seventy. In addition to his duties for the Independent, he was also stringing for papers in Kingston, Rome, Binghamton, and Albany, writing articles for them on the missing girl. When out-of-town reporters and TV crews visited Aurelius, Franklin was someone they talked to and counted on for information and introductions to the right people. I don’t know if his being so busy was hard on Sadie, but she spent more time with Mrs. Kelly and at my house. I pretended to grumble but I enjoyed it. I let Sadie plan the menu and we ate a lot of macaroni and cheese. She spent so much time with my pickled animals that their jars found a permanent place on the kitchen table. Each morning I was greeted by the doleful stare of the cow eyes.

  Apart from the official investigation run by Captain Percy, there were other groups involved—church groups, Boy Scouts, and the VFW. The Pentecostals were especially active. But during the second week a larger group, calling itself the Friends of Sharon Malloy, was formed and took the place of and, in some cases, absorbed the smaller groups. It distributed posters and raised money for information as to Sharon’s whereabouts and even more money for her safe return (at first the amounts were $10,000 and $20,000, though eventually they got much higher).

  The group also fielded calls from people who believed they had useful information. Most were perfectly sincere. They had seen a girl who resembled Sharon or a man behaving suspiciously (usually someone in a van) and they thought it worth calling, though one wonders how many had an eye on the $10,000. There were also crank calls, even malicious calls—people calling about witchcraft or accusing Sharon of moral pollution, of being a filthy little girl who deserved what she got. But these made up a tiny fraction.

  The Friends of Sharon Malloy worked closely with the police and helped with the searches, while the phone calls they answered saved the police a lot of time. They became part of a network of groups around the country sending out and receiving information about disappearances. Soon posters with the faces of other missing children began to appear around Aurelius. Some had been missing for years and many were from the West Coast.

  Sandra Petoski, who taught social studies, was co-chairman of the Friends of Sharon Malloy along with Rolf Porter, who ran the Century 21 real estate office. Porter had been married to Mildred Porter, who worked in Donald Malloy’s pharmacy, but they had been divorced for some years. The Friends of Sharon Malloy had hoped to enlist Sharon’s parents, feeling that the doctor’s presence would be a great boost, but neither Allen Malloy nor his wife wanted the constant attention, even though they gave their support. Paul Leimbach joined, though, and he brought his brother-in-law Donald, who was a great help because he could add the Malloy name to the group’s attempts to raise reward money. Donald contributed a few hours a day to the group, helping with the phones and talking with people.

  Donald was about five years younger than the doctor and he shared the doctor’s florid Irishness, though he was heavier, rather stout in fact. And he had more hair than his brother, that same sandy red color. He had immaculate hands: thin, considering his size, with long, delicate fingers. Donald suffered terribly over his niece’s disappearance, brooding and erupting in anger. Having come from large cities, both brothers felt especially betrayed to find the dangers that they had fled turn up in a small town like Aurelius. Their sister’s husband, Paul Leimbach, who had been born in Aurelius, didn’t share their anger, though he loved his niece and was extremely upset.

  Franklin talked to Donald regularly and he took out-of-town reporters to see him as well. His anger made good copy and he often applauded Governor Pataki’s reinstatement of the death penalty in New York State. Indeed, it seemed that a jail sentence, even a long one, was too light a punishment for an abductor of children. Donald posted a huge blowup of his niece’s picture, at least eight feet by five feet—the same picture of Sharon standing before the garage door with a baseball glove—on the front window of his pharmacy, and though the pharmacy was certainly not the headquar
ters of the Friends of Sharon Malloy, the huge picture made it a focal point and one sometimes saw people taking photographs of it. Harry Martini, our principal, said the huge picture didn’t do Donald Malloy’s business any harm either, but his remark was dismissed as cynical. Paul Leimbach’s CPA firm also had an office downtown. It, too, had a picture of Sharon in the window, though one of the regular nine-by-twelve posters.

  In talking to Franklin, Donald would vent his disbelief at the psychology of someone who would abduct a child.

  “Why should anyone do that?” he asked. “There’s no punishment too great for such a person.”

  Donald often made these remarks from behind the prescription counter of his drugstore, which was slightly raised, making him taller than anyone else in the store. As always, he had on the white jacket with his name stitched in red over his heart, and beneath it the word Pharmacist. His glasses had colorless frames, and whenever he made an important point, he would remove them, hold them in one hand, and tap them against the palm of the other.

  Donald was able to supply Franklin with many anecdotes about Sharon: a squirrel with a broken leg that she nursed back to health, the fact that she had sold more cookies than any other girl in her Girl Scout troop; that her mother had taught her to cook and that Sharon had been responsible for dinner every Wednesday evening, usually a chicken casserole or pork chops Florentine. The effect of this information was to make Sharon much more than a face on a poster, bringing increased support and pledges of money to the Friends of Sharon Malloy. Sharon was a typical fourteen-year-old and the articles in the Independent about her many kindnesses and what she was like around the house led people to think of her as being like a relative of theirs. Pam Larkin, a teller at Fleet Bank, let me know several times that Sharon was exactly like her sister Betsy, who had moved to California ten years ago and now lived in Bakersfield. Sharon’s idealization, if I may call it that, brought her into many families and increased the level of pain and incomprehension. It seemed that everyone remembered a fourteen-year-old like Sharon who had been important to them, and so the blow of her disappearance affected them all.