On the Saturday after Halloween, my next-door neighbor, Pete Daniels, happened to speak to me as we were both raking leaves. He almost never spoke to me, so his attention was surprising. First he mentioned the nice weather, then he said it was a shame about Meg Shiller.
Then he said, “Sadie Moore spends a lot of time at your house, doesn’t she?”
I felt a chill. If I said no, he would find it suspicious. If I said yes, he would find that suspicious too. Of course, it wasn’t any of his business, so his very question suggested mistrust. Pete had an alert expression, like a man listening for an echo. He leaned against his rake, a thin fellow in a Syracuse University sweatshirt that proclaimed him an “Orangeman.”
“I’m glad to help out Franklin whenever I can,” I said. “He’s been very busy.”
I was a subject of discussion. I saw my neighbors looking at me with new eyes. Of course, it was easy to be paranoid about this. Could I ask Pete if he thought I might have abducted Sharon Malloy and Meg Shiller? The police knew I had been at school at the time of the first disappearance and at home or with Sadie at the time of the second. But what did my neighbors know? And once that sort of talk begins, truth or falsehood means nothing. Talk has its own momentum.
The next day, Sunday, Sadie told me that her father had been trying to find someone else to look after her. Mrs. Kelly was available only three afternoons and early evenings, and besides, she had left early more than once. Franklin wanted to get another person as well. He even said he might send Sadie to her aunt’s in White Plains until “all this is cleared up.” Sadie protested vigorously enough that the matter was temporarily dropped. But Franklin told Sadie that she couldn’t spend as much time at my house. She responded by saying she had thought that Franklin liked me.
“It’s not a matter of liking or disliking,” Franklin said.
Franklin also suggested that Sadie could go to Paula’s house each evening.
“I’ll run away from home,” Sadie told him.
Then, when Sadie returned home from school Monday afternoon, she found Barry Sanders’s mother settled in the living room watching television. “Like a big, ugly plant,” Sadie told me.
“Tell me if you’re hungry and I’ll fix you a snack,” Mrs. Sanders said, returning to her show. Because she claimed to be allergic to dogs, she had shut Shadow up in the basement. Sadie rescued Shadow and went to her room. Around six Mrs. Sanders prepared macaroni and cheese and green beans. Barry appeared for dinner but he didn’t talk to Sadie, because he was shy with her in his mother’s presence. Mrs. Sanders urged Barry to eat his green beans. After supper Barry and Sadie wanted to come over to my house but Mrs. Sanders said that wouldn’t be a good idea. They watched TV instead. Shadow whined from Sadie’s room but wasn’t allowed to join them.
“She wants to keep me a prisoner in my own house,” Sadie told me the next morning at school.
Tuesday evening I went to see Franklin when he got home about eleven. “Do you really think I might be involved with these disappearances?”
He was not comfortable. “There’s a lot of crazy talk.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Of course I don’t think you’re involved, but people are upset. What can I do?”
I wanted to say, Franklin, look at me, I’m your friend. Instead I said, “Well, I hope this is settled soon.”
“So do I,” said Franklin. “Jesus, so do I.”
Charges were brought against Hark. The county prosecutor wanted to charge him with first-degree murder but Ryan had him change it to second. I like to think that Ryan felt sympathy for Hark but perhaps he knew that a first-degree murder conviction was impossible. There were plenty of people who thought that Hark shouldn’t be arrested, that he had done the right thing. It was argued that even though Chihani had nothing to do with the disappearances he still represented the sort of thinking that leads to criminal behavior. One heard the argument that laws exist to keep deviants out of the community and that to seek to change these laws radically, as Chihani tried to do, was to make the community vulnerable. Chihani’s preaching and the presence of the IIR had created an atmosphere that made it possible for the disappearances to take place.
The dangers of permissiveness became a general topic and I was told that Henry Skoyles, owner of the Strand Theater on Main Street, had canceled three scheduled movies as being too violent or sexually provocative, exchanging them for what he described as “family fare.” I had known Henry Skoyles in school. He had been two years behind me and had the reputation for being inventive as far as obscenities were concerned. Once he had called the principal “turdhead” and soon it seemed that everyone was using the word. Now he felt called upon to bring back the Walt Disney version of Aladdin and run it for the entire month.
—
But I’m not doing justice to the terror. Not only did we know that horrible things had happened, we were afraid that horrible things were about to happen. This made us even more suspicious, as if suspicion itself could keep us safe by keeping us alert.
With Meg’s disappearance many new people joined the Friends of Sharon Malloy. More often, this group was called the Friends, since it now also included friends of Meg Shiller, though legally it was still the Friends of Sharon Malloy. The Friends decided they could help by organizing teams of volunteers to patrol Aurelius. By the weekend they had three cars with three people in each watching the streets of Aurelius twenty-four hours a day. No longer were they simply trying to find the missing girls, they were trying to keep more girls from disappearing. If I had suggested at school that they were a vigilante force, I would have been reproached. I’m sure others felt as I did, but such was the degree of fear that one had no choice but to applaud the Friends.
Sharon’s uncles, Paul Leimbach and Donald Malloy, were the most active in organizing these patrols, but Meg’s uncle, Mike Shiller, was also involved. There was talk that the men on these patrols should wear a special cap or armband to indicate their status as protectors, but Leimbach said it would make them too much like a police force. Donald Malloy got a number of magnetic triangles from a highway construction firm in Utica. These were bright Day-Glo orange, sixteen inches high, and the Friends displayed them on the front doors of their patrol cars. I don’t know how many times a day I would look from my classroom window or from a window at home and see a vehicle with those orange triangles slowly passing by. It was both reassuring and frightening. I know that Ryan Tavich disapproved of the patrols, though Chief Schmidt felt they couldn’t do any harm and was glad to have them on the streets. Captain Percy’s feelings were mixed.
Paul Leimbach and Donald Malloy spent less and less time at work. Both were heard to say that the police weren’t doing enough to find the culprit or to protect the citizens of Aurelius. At a city council meeting, Donald proposed a six o’clock curfew for anyone under the age of eighteen. Despite some protest his proposal was accepted with modification. Beginning immediately, anyone sixteen years or younger could not be out on the street after seven at night without an adult.
I was tempted to remind people that Sharon had vanished in the midafternoon, but we had reached a time when people, myself included, were circumspect in their speech. Everyone, it seemed, listened for a nuance of guilt, some double meaning that would point a finger. When I spoke, I felt that people listened not to my words but to what lay behind them. And of course people felt they heard something when they heard nothing of the kind. Far better to remain silent and to wear a brave smile, to praise the Friends for their sacrifice. Briefly I even considered joining them—this was when I felt I was being watched—but then I rebelled in my own little way and refused, though I told no one of my refusal and it was only to myself that I refused.
Once the curfew was in place, Henry Skoyles canceled the second show at the Strand and even the first show was sparsely attended. Many stores and restaurants open in the evening ch
anged their hours. Junior’s began closing at seven and the Aurelius Grill at eight. Wegmans, which had closed at midnight for years, now closed at nine o’clock. Night meetings were canceled. Rehearsals for the fall play at the high school were canceled, as were rehearsals for the Christmas pageant at Saint Mary’s Church. Business fell off at local bars and restaurants. People who never locked their doors, locked their doors.
On the other hand, pizza deliveries doubled and the video stores did a big business. The liquor store out at the strip mall was also more active. The town library reported more visits and church attendance increased. And I must say that a higher percentage of my students got their homework in on time. From what I heard in the teachers’ lounge, this was true in many classes. The Morellis, across the street from me, obtained a large dog from the pound in Utica, a German shepherd that barked all night long and terrorized the neighborhood cats. Indeed, a number of people bought dogs.
Much of this was reported by Franklin, and by writing about it he seemed to increase the level of fear among us. His articles led to more meetings being canceled, to more stores closing early. Yet it seemed that if Franklin were to write nothing, that would increase the terror even more. So he wrote everything he could. But because of his connection to Paula and Aaron, because he had often interviewed Chihani, even because he was not originally from Aurelius, it was thought he was not telling as much as he knew. It was assumed he was concealing information, as if the police had suspects, like Aaron or other members of the IIR, whom Franklin knew about but about whom he was silent.
This put Franklin in an impossible situation. To write was to create fear; not to write was to create fear. And he could never write enough; he was always thought to be concealing worse things.
Thirty-two
Fat Leon Stahl continued his daily routines as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Chihani’s classes were taken over by other faculty members and the course in which Leon had been enrolled—Nineteenth-Century Class Relations—was assigned to Sherman Carpenter, the professor having the affair, however brief, with Harriet Malcomb. Although upset about the death of Chihani, Leon thought little about the disappearances of Meg and Sharon. It wasn’t that he was callous; rather, like most other students at the college, he lived in another world. Many students never left campus, unless it was to go to one of the pubs or lunch counters. Leon knew about the missing girls and perhaps he worried about them, but the fact that Harriet, whom he imagined he loved, was sexually involved with Professor Carpenter was of greater significance.
In Leon’s ten months as a member of the IIR, he had matured somewhat. He had added a small black goatee to his small black moustache and he wore a variety of sport coats, tweeds and herringbones that he purchased at thrift shops in Utica. None were in the best condition, nor did they fit. And as the weather got colder he also took to wearing a plaid porkpie hat. While most of the students carried their books in backpacks, Leon had an old leather briefcase, also from a thrift shop. And he bought new glasses with wire frames. He saw himself as an intellectual, and perhaps he was. At least he always had his nose in a book. He was even able to read while walking and this was how I often saw him, walking downtown from the campus reading a book.
It was on such a walk that Andy Wilkins and Russ Fusco found him. These were young men who worked at the rope factory. More important, they were volunteers in the Friends and took part in the patrols, though they were off duty when they came upon Leon. They were a self-satisfied pair with exaggerated opinions about their good looks. Andy had played tackle for the Terriers and even managed to graduate from high school. Russ was from Norwich but he had moved to Aurelius after getting the job at the rope factory. Both were in their midtwenties.
Who knows what they thought? Neither was known for being a bully, nor was there much to be said in their favor. They were young men who drank beer, tended toward inarticulateness, and were shocked, excited, and indignant about recent events in our town. They wanted to ask Leon a question; this was what they claimed. And it may have been true, but the question concerned Leon’s involvement with the IIR and the IIR’s involvement with Sharon and Meg. Both Andy and Russ knew Hark Powers, and while they were not friends, they felt that Hark had gotten a raw deal. After all, Chihani had beaten Hark with his cane.
Leon was walking down Monroe Street toward Main. It was just past noon and he meant to have lunch at the Aurelius Grill. Every Wednesday the Grill offered a meatloaf special with mashed potatoes and gravy. It had become a ritual with Leon, especially since his favorite waitress cut him an extra-thick slice of meatloaf. The day was mild, with small white clouds drifting across a blue sky. Leon read as he walked, a book by Terry Eagleton on Marxist literary theory.
Andy was driving his green Camaro and he coasted to a stop at the curb. When Leon got even with the car, Andy called to him, “Hey, you.”
Leon kept walking. Later he said he hadn’t heard anyone.
Andy called to him again but Leon didn’t stop. Andy put the car in reverse, backed up rapidly, hit the brake, and got out. Russ Fusco got out as well.
Andy stood in the middle of the sidewalk as Leon approached, reading his book.
“Hey,” said Andy again. He couldn’t imagine anyone’s reading a book, much less reading while walking.
Leon kept walking. He seemed oblivious to Andy’s presence.
Andy reached out and knocked the book from Leon’s hands. It skittered across the sidewalk and Russ picked it up. The title made no sense to him but he recognized the name of Marx. He showed the title to Andy.
“Give me my book,” said Leon, becoming aware of the two men. His tone was peremptory. He didn’t see why anyone would knock a book from his hand. He was taller than Andy and Russ and weighed what the two men weighed together. Russ said later that Leon’s porkpie hat sat on his head like a raisin on a cupcake and that description was repeated by many people.
“I want to ask you a question,” said Andy.
“Give me my book,” said Leon, a little louder.
“You’ll get it when I’m ready to give it to you,” said Russ.
At that point, Leon charged them. Considering the value he placed on books, this was a religious matter with him. Leon knocked Andy to the sidewalk. He tried to snatch the book from Russ’s hand, but Russ jumped back. Leon charged Russ but by then Andy had gotten to his feet and he grabbed Leon from behind.
The result was that Andy beat Leon. He broke his glasses, knocked him to the ground, and kicked his porkpie hat into the street. And when Leon was huddled into a large moaning mass, Andy took the book and tore it up. This happened in the middle of the day and people saw it. Before Andy was finished, a police car with Chuck Hawley and Ray Hanna screeched to a stop and they dragged Andy away from Leon. Russ hadn’t touched Leon, but neither had he done anything to stop his friend.
Though Leon wasn’t seriously injured, he had been hurt. Andy was furious that a fat creature like Leon would dare to attack him. Leon was furious that they would take his book and destroy it. He pressed charges and Andy and Russ were arrested. Leon also insisted that he be taken to the hospital. X-rays showed no internal injuries and two Band-Aids made him as good as new.
Franklin wrote about the affair for Thursday’s Independent. People learned that Andy and Russ were active in the Friends of Sharon Malloy. Leon’s membership in the IIR and his connection to Chihani were emphasized. Andy claimed that he just wanted to ask Leon a simple question (he didn’t say about what) when Leon attacked him. Leon said he had only tried to get his book back.
Franklin talked to Paul Leimbach about the incident, hoping to get an apology from the Friends. “People are upset,” said Leimbach. “Consequently mistakes will be made.” Nobody found this reassuring.
Thursday night somebody threw rocks through the windows of Leon’s second-story apartment near the college, getting glass all over the rug and damaging a cassette player. L
eon was at the library at the time. No one was charged, though Ryan established that Andy or Russ couldn’t have been involved. On Sunday night around ten o’clock someone again threw a rock through Leon’s window. Leon called the police. Chuck Hawley answered the call but found nobody in the neighborhood. “Deserted” was the word Chuck used. The streets were deserted.
On Monday morning the academic dean at the college met with Leon and asked if he would like to take a leave of absence. The tuition he had paid for the fall semester could be applied to another semester. Leon accepted. Now that the world had caught his attention, he had grown anxious. He didn’t see why anyone should steal his book or break his windows.
“After all,” he said, “I never even went to the cemetery.”
The fact of his membership in Inquiries into the Right was not seen by him to be important.
“A discussion group,” he kept saying. “Why should we want to kidnap a little girl?”
On Tuesday Leon packed his trunk and went home to Dunkirk on the shore of Lake Erie. The police had his phone number if they needed him. This left five members of the IIR: Aaron, Harriet, Barry, and the Levine brothers. They no longer held meetings. Barry and Aaron sometimes met. Sometimes Aaron saw Harriet. Jesse and Shannon went back to their skateboards, but they still called themselves Marxists. Their particular form of Marxism, however, required no study. It was simply an alternative to all that was wrong with the world, while their use of Marxist jargon gave them an edge in their arguments with other students. “Praxis,” they would say. “Epistemological dialectics!” But of course we were not done with them yet.
The Church of Dead Girls Page 28