Who were these cronies? There were three: Jeb Hendricks, who worked at the Midas Muffler by Wegmans; Ernie Corelli, who worked at Henderson’s Plumbing and Heating; and Jimmy Feldman, who had a janitorial position at Knox Consolidated. They had known Hark all their lives, though they were a few years younger than Hark. They went hunting together in the fall and fishing in the spring. In the summer there was softball. Feldman was married but the others were single. He had married while still in high school—the girl was pregnant—and I don’t believe he graduated.
All, along with Hark, were men with complaints. If a favorite football team lost a game, it was because the fix was in. If state taxes went up, it was because the money went down to the city, to welfare recipients and greedy minorities. Apart from being complainers, they were rather normal young men who looked at the world and their place in it with a mixture of confusion and resentment. They liked Hark because he had opinions and placed the blame where they liked to see it placed: elsewhere. He was stronger than they were. He was louder, could drink more, and shot a deer when the others missed. Most nights two or more of these young men were to be found at Bud’s Tavern drinking beer, shooting pool, and complaining. Sometimes they were joined by two or three others rather like themselves. Added to their talk was now the subject of Sharon’s disappearance.
“If Aaron McNeal’s not involved in this,” Hark would declare, “I’ll give my other fucking ear.”
In these discussions truth was not a matter of logic but came from a strength of conviction and the ability to shout down one’s opponents. The more attention Hark received, the louder he became, until he himself, clearly, believed everything he said.
“Wasn’t the Arab’s car seen right when Sharon disappeared?” he would ask.
And his cronies would nod and others would nod as well.
“It’s one thing for the cops to say they don’t have clear proof they can take to court,” Hark would argue. “But it’s another thing not to know. I mean, know in your fucking heart!”
Although I point to Hark Powers, his claims were not unlike those heard in other taverns and houses around Aurelius. He may have been the loudest but his ideas came to be shared by many. Indeed, I heard similar ones expressed within the teachers’ lounge at Knox Consolidated.
Of all the IIR members, it was Barry whose isolation I understood best, as he visited me frequently. Since the beginning of September, he had had a boyfriend at Aurelius College, someone named Ralph who hoped to become an electrical engineer. The attention that Barry received as a member of Inquiries into the Right bothered Ralph from the start. Then, after Sharon’s disappearance, when charges were brought against the group for vandalizing Homeland Cemetery, he told Barry that he didn’t want to see him anymore, though he assured him they were still friends. It appears they had a scene in Ralph’s dorm room, where Barry confessed that he might possibly be in love with Ralph and that he saw Ralph’s decision not to see him anymore as a cruel betrayal.
The Friday after Sharon’s clothes turned up, Barry came to see me. He was quite open about his bitterness. He was lonely. His heart was broken. He was destined to be lonely all his life.
“No one will like me again,” he said.
“What about that man in town?” I asked.
“Who do you mean?”
“That first man you were involved with.” I had, in fact, remained interested in this person, since Barry refused to divulge his name.
“I didn’t like him,” said Barry.
“What did you do with him?” I asked.
“Nothing nice.”
“But what did you do?”
“He only wanted me to masturbate him and he wouldn’t touch me at all. And he was cross.”
“You mean he yelled at you?”
“Nothing like that. He insisted I wash my hands and he stood beside me to make sure I did it right.”
Barry’s main problem, in terms of his loneliness, was that he was either at school or at his mother’s. Plainly, he wasn’t going to meet other men unless he expanded his social circle. I found myself thinking about Jaime Rose, but there was nothing to suggest that Jaime would find Barry anything but silly. I knew, however, that Jaime went out. He bowled and he belonged to a garden club at the library. I’d even seen him sometimes in bars, not Bud’s Tavern but the bar at Gillian’s Motel. So I told Barry he needed to go out more often. This was not radical advice.
“People stare at me,” said Barry.
“You’re not going to meet people unless you go out.”
“I don’t like to drink.”
“There are reading groups at the library. There’s a jazz society and a travel club. You have to exert yourself.”
—
There is an egalitarian quality to needs. We all have them. Barry’s need for companionship differed from no one else’s. At Aurelius College that Saturday night the ski club sponsored a dance in the cafeteria featuring a local band called Unreasonable Behavior. And in the house of one of the Spanish professors, Ricardo Diaz, the Latin League was holding a Mexican dinner—tacos, enchiladas verdes, chicken mole, and Dr Pepper.
Downtown there was a function at the Masonic Temple and the Elks were holding an auction to raise money for the Little League. The Good Fellowship Evangelical Church was having a pancake supper. Aurelius’s several Italian restaurants were busy and if you stood in front of City Hall and sniffed deeply you could probably detect the smells of oregano and grease. The cocktail lounge at Gillian’s Motel was offering ladies two drinks for the price of one. Bud’s Tavern had free buffalo wings. The parking lot of Landry’s bowling alley was full of pickup trucks. The Domino’s Pizza delivery truck wove its way back and forth through the town like the needle and thread tying everything nearly together. The Strand Theater was showing something called The Stupids to a packed house. The teenagers who worked at the sub shop on Main Street were busy making sandwiches.
That Saturday evening Barry Sanders had decided to go out—a significant decision—and had gone to Landry’s bowling alley. He went not to play but to sit at a table and drink Coke. Although this seems like an innocent occupation, Barry believed he was being quite daring. Who knew the nature of his fantasies? He wore a new blue shirt and his white hair was carefully combed. He sipped his Coke, blinked his pink eyes behind his thick glasses, and whenever there was a loud crash of pins, he probably gave a little jump. Barry, in his way, was out on the town.
Aaron had also gone out that evening. He had a drink at Gillian’s with Jeanette Richards, with whom his relationship was cooling, and when she left around seven-thirty he stayed to talk to an English teacher from the high school, Ron Slavitt, who wrote poetry. Aaron contended that poetry was a dead medium; Ron Slavitt disagreed. Jaime Rose was also at Gillian’s, drinking alone at the bar. He liked elaborate drinks: fresh fruit daiquiris and drinks with Kahlúa.
Franklin and Paula had taken Sadie to dinner to Angotti’s Spaghetti House. Paula tried to talk to Sadie about school but Sadie was monosyllabic. She had not wanted spaghetti and was eating a hamburger and French fries. Earlier that week Sadie had seen her blue sweater on the news after it came back from the state police lab in Ithaca. She had never told Paula that she had given the sweater to Sharon Malloy, though Paula knew it and Sadie felt guilty. She also had a horror, she revealed later, that the sweater would be returned to her. A horror not because of its connection to Paula but because of its connection to Sharon. Sadie even imagined that she would find blood spots where the police had found none, which was silly. When Sadie ate, her hair swept across her plate, coming precariously near the ketchup. Both Franklin and Paula were at the edge of telling Sadie to tuck her hair back behind her ears, but they forbore.
Ryan Tavich had taken Cookie Evans to dinner at Mike’s Steak House out by the strip mall. Between his usual work and the time he gave to Captain Percy, he had been putting in twelve-ho
ur days and he felt he needed a break. But he kept thinking about the mannequin’s hand in Sharon’s backpack. And he thought about Janice McNeal, her quick voice and how she had touched him with her hands. He could almost feel it and the memory made his food tasteless in his mouth.
Even though Cookie Evans exhausted Ryan with her energy, he found it comfortable to go out with her because she didn’t mind doing the talking. Indeed, she hardly noticed whether Ryan spoke or not. As they ate, she reviewed for Ryan all the women who had come into Make Waves during the week. There seemed an endless number. Ryan nodded, smiled, and thought about Janice McNeal. Cookie counted her customers off on her fingers. Her nails were long and dark red. Her short hair was curled and frosted. Ryan thought her head looked landscaped and he told himself to remember to tell this to Franklin, who claimed he never joked.
At one point Ryan asked, “Did any of these women talk about Sharon Malloy?”
Cookie looked at him with exasperation. “That’s all they talked about. And their husbands, of course. It’s surprising how many of them think themselves in danger.”
At Bud’s Tavern this was also Hark Powers’s subject. Sheila Murphy was tending bar and she supplied Hark, Jeb Hendricks, Ernie Corelli, and Jimmy Feldman with pitchers of beer, as well as pork rinds and potato skins. The room was smoky and there was the click of pool balls. Country music and sometimes an old Sinatra song played on the jukebox.
“I saw a TV show,” said Hark, “where the killer put the body in the graveyard. He took dirt out of a new grave and stuck the body right on top of the coffin. I bet the state cops haven’t even checked the graves. You do something like snatching a girl and it’s only so long before you snatch another. It’s a sickness.”
And his cronies thought about this sickness and about how it could be stopped.
Dr. Malloy and his family spent their night at home with the Leimbachs. They tried to have a fairly normal Saturday evening with dinner, television, and conversation but they knew they were doing nothing more than waiting for the phone to ring. My cousin Chuck Hawley sat outside Dr. Malloy’s house in a patrol car listening to talk radio. Over at the Friends of Sharon Malloy a dozen volunteers, including Donald Malloy, were mailing out posters. Captain Percy was home in his neat little ranch house in Potterville reading the reports submitted to him by the Sharon Malloy task force. There was nothing in them he didn’t know.
At eight o’clock, just as I was making myself a bowl of soup, Barry was leaving Landry’s bowling alley. He got in his rusty Ford Fairlane and drove to the sub shop downtown because he was hungry and had grown bored watching people bowl. He had talked to no one but it was too early to go home, where his mother would ask where he had been and if he had had a good time. Then she would look at him with a worried expression.
There were no parking spaces in front of the sub shop so he parked a block away. He disliked parallel parking and needed a lot of room, two spaces instead of one. It was a cool evening with half a moon in a clear sky. Barry paused to see if he could hear any geese. He liked it when they flew high over the town with their distant and energetic honking. This night he heard nothing except the jukebox from Bud’s Tavern. Barry didn’t like country music. He preferred a group called Phish. But in general he didn’t see much purpose in music.
At the sub shop he ordered a veggie and cheese and a large Coke. He thought of eating at a table but there were five teenage boys in the shop who kept looking at him and grinning. Having just come in from out of doors, Barry knew he was blinking more than usual. And when he was at the counter with his back turned to the boys, he heard one of them say, “Little Pink.” Although Barry hated how he looked, he had become fairly stoical about it. He no longer considered dyeing his hair, using makeup, and wearing tinted contact lenses—fantasies he had had in the past. But he didn’t wish to eat his sandwich while being gawked at.
He walked back up Main Street toward his car. He would drive over to the college campus and eat his sandwich there. If he went home, his mother would ask him why he had wasted his money at the sub shop when she could have made him a perfectly good sandwich out of the food in their icebox.
When Barry was half a block from his car, someone called to him: “Hey, Little Pink, wait up.”
Hark Powers and three other men were crossing Main Street toward him. Barry had an almost overpowering wish to run but he kept still.
Hark joined him on the sidewalk, standing between him and his car, which he could see parked in front of Weaver’s Bakery. Barry recognized Jeb Hendricks but he didn’t know the other two.
“Where’re you going, Little Pink?” asked Hark.
“Home.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“I just want to go home, that’s all.”
“Is your mother expecting you?” asked Hark. “You wouldn’t want to be late.” Hark and Jeb Hendricks wore jean jackets. The other two wore dark sweatshirts.
“It’s not that. I just want to go home.”
“Whatcha got there, Little Pink?”
Barry’s Coke was in his left hand and his veggie and cheese, rolled in white paper to the size of a thin football, was in his right.
“Just a sandwich.”
“Let’s see.” Hark plucked the sandwich from Barry’s hand, unwrapped it and dropped the paper on the sidewalk. Then he took a bite. “Um, veggie and cheese. It’s still warm. I like veggie and cheese. Want a bite, Jeb?”
Hark gave the sandwich to Jeb, who took a bite and gave the sandwich to Ernie Corelli. Barry watched the three men chewing.
“No meat?” asked Ernie.
“I don’t eat meat,” said Barry.
“Meat’s bad for Little Pink,” said Hark. “It makes him pink.”
Barry started to ask for his sandwich back but he decided he didn’t want it anymore. Hark took another bite.
“What’re you drinking, Little Pink?” asked Hark, with his mouth full.
“Coke.”
“Lemme see.”
Barry held the cup to his chest and stepped away. “No, it’s mine.”
Hark reached out and knocked the cup from Barry’s hand. Half the Coke spilled down Barry’s new blue shirt and the rest splashed on the sidewalk.
“Looks like you spilled your Coke, Little Pink,” said Hark.
Barry turned and began walking toward the sub shop. He didn’t have enough money to get another sandwich but he meant to wait inside until Hark and his friends were gone. His wet shirt felt cold and sticky.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Little Pink.”
Barry kept walking. Although he was afraid of Hark, he was even more afraid of crying.
Hark grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him up against the brick front of a building. “I said I was talking to you.” Hark’s face was about eight inches from his own. Barry’s head had knocked against the brick and it hurt.
“Leave me alone,” said Barry.
Hark lightly slapped his face. “I’m the one who gives the orders,” he said pleasantly.
Barry saw someone in front of the sub shop watching them. He realized it was Aaron.
Hark slapped him a little harder. “I’m talking to you, Little Pink. Why don’t you tell us about Sharon?”
“What do you mean?” asked Barry. Out of the corner of his eye, he still saw Aaron, not moving, just watching.
“You wanted to touch her, didn’t you?”
“Sharon? Why should I touch her?” Barry wanted to call to Aaron. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the front of his shirt. The Coke was cold against his skin.
“I heard you were the one who took back Sharon’s clothes,” said Hark.
Barry looked at him. He smelled beer on Hark’s breath.
“Her clothes?”
“Did that Arab give them to you?” He pronounced it with a long A: A-r
ab.
Barry turned quickly to his left and began running toward the sub shop. He hadn’t gone five feet before Hark leapt on his back, knocking him to the sidewalk. Barry slid on his belly and his glasses fell off. Hark turned him over and tried to punch Barry in the face.
“I didn’t say you could do that!” Hark shouted.
Barry covered his face with his arms and lay on his back with Hark astride him. Hark kept slapping at his arms, hitting his elbows and wrists.
Then Hark seemed to leap backward. Barry opened his eyes. Through the blur of his vision, he saw that Aaron had grabbed Hark’s long hair and was dragging him backward. Hark scrambled to his feet and tried to take a swing at Aaron, who kicked him. Then Jeb Hendricks swung at Aaron, then Ernie Corelli and Jimmy Feldman. Aaron tried to defend himself, putting his back to a parked car and swinging, but he wasn’t a fighter. Barry curled himself up into a ball on the sidewalk and covered his head with his hands. He couldn’t stand the sound of the men hitting Aaron, the thunk of their fists. He wished he wasn’t a coward.
Aaron was knocked to the sidewalk and Hark and two of the others tried to kick him, but they got in one another’s way. Barry heard footsteps running toward them. He looked between his fingers to see Ryan Tavich.
“Police!” shouted Ryan. He grabbed Hark by the collar and yanked him away. The other men stepped back from Aaron, who continued to lie on the sidewalk.
“They attacked me,” said Barry. He tried standing up but his knees felt weak. “They ate my sandwich. Aaron tried to stop them.” He wiped his eyes and looked around for his glasses.
Ryan held Hark Powers’s arm. About a dozen other people had run over, including the teenagers who had been in the sub shop.
“Ask them about Sharon Malloy,” said Hark.
The Church of Dead Girls Page 21