The Church of Dead Girls

by Stephen Dobyns

  Although the attack on Leon was censured, a few saw it as a much-needed tonic against the forces of anarchy. They even saw it as an action performed by the Friends of Sharon Malloy, though Andy and Russ had been off duty at the time. The Friends became a force within Aurelius but it never seemed they were motivated by a sense of power so much as by fear: the loss of more children. Their use of power stemmed from that fear rather than from an enjoyment of power for its own sake. There were some members who abused their power but the group itself seemed well-intentioned.

  But their fear led them to overstep their authority—I felt it did. An example was their visit to me on the day Leon was beaten up. I should say that many people received visits and none felt bullied by them. At least they didn’t complain.

  I had finished my class preparations for the next day and had settled down to browse through Scientific American. I must admit that I rarely read more than the first few paragraphs of any story, but the pictures are a pleasure and there is always at least one story relevant to tenth grade biology. Once a month I have one of my students report on it for extra credit.

  My doorbell rang at nine. At first I thought it was Sadie, though she usually knocks or just opens the door. Now, like others, I was keeping it locked. Sadie was still being cared for by Barry’s mother, The Lump, as Sadie called her. And since it was Wednesday night, I knew that Franklin would be busy with the paper.

  Through the curtain on the glass of the front door, I saw three people standing on the porch. I turned on the light and recognized them as Donald Malloy, Agnes Hilton, and Dave Bauer. I felt alarmed since I knew they were all members of the Friends. On the other hand, Agnes Hilton worked as treasurer and secretary for the Ebenezer Baptist Church while Dave Bauer was associate director of the YMCA and also a volunteer fireman. And they looked friendly, especially when I turned on the light.

  I opened the door and invited them in. There followed a minute or so of foot stamping, coat removing, and hand shaking. It was a cold night and all wore heavy coats. Again I was struck by their friendliness, but even more by their desire to appear friendly.

  “We wondered if we could talk to you briefly,” said Donald Malloy, cordially. “It won’t take much of your time.”

  I invited them into the living room. Agnes said something flattering about the furniture, though it was nothing special. She was a redheaded woman in her late forties who always wore dresses. Either her husband was dead or he had somehow vanished, because she lived alone with a younger sister. There was a wedding ring on her finger, however, so presumably there had been a Mr. Hilton at one point.

  I offered them tea.

  “That would be very nice,” said Dave Bauer.

  Agnes Hilton volunteered to help, but I said I could do it. I wanted a moment alone to collect myself. I went to the kitchen and prepared a tray. In the cupboard was a tin of Danish cookies I’d been saving and I put a dozen on a plate. These situations are always foolish. Should I put the cookies on a best plate or an ordinary plate? I chose the ordinary plate, Syracuse china. I poured the water into the teapot and carried the tray into the living room. Dave Bauer and Agnes were seated on the couch. Donald was in the armchair, the chair in which I always sit.

  Donald closed the Scientific American he had been glancing at. “Pretty fantastic this human-genome project,” he said. “That Watson is a man whose hand I’d like to shake.” He put the magazine on the coffee table. He had an open, affable face and his freckles made him seem younger than he actually was. He wore khakis and one of those tan rag sweaters from L. L. Bean. When he leaned forward to put the magazine on the table, he made a little oomph noise.

  I put the tray next to the magazine.

  “You must be upset about the Terriers,” said Bauer.

  The Friday evening football games at the high school had been canceled because of the curfew, which meant the team was no longer a contender within its league. I had to think a moment before I knew what Bauer was talking about.

  “It’s a shame,” I said. I poured the tea into three mugs. “I’ll let you add your own sugar and milk.”

  “I take mine plain,” said Donald.

  I handed him a cup, then poured one for myself and sat down in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. Though I had laid a fire with birch logs, I was saving it for Friday night. I arranged my face into an expectant expression.

  “I expect you’re wondering why we’re here,” said Donald, and he smiled at his companions. Bauer took a cookie.

  Agnes explained their connection with the Friends of Sharon Malloy and there was a certain amount of talk about the missing girls. I’m afraid I was anxious not to say the wrong thing and I was also anxious not to seem nervous. Bauer took another cookie. He was one of those wiry young men who can eat all day and never gain a pound. In the summer he was involved in coaching Little League and in the winter he directed a basketball program at the Y. I hoped he wouldn’t discover my indifference to sports. Then I grew perturbed for feeling bullied by these people.

  “But what has any of this to do with me?” I asked.

  “I gather you saw Meg Shiller on the night she disappeared,” said Donald. He looked quite comfortable in my chair. His tea sat on the coffee table, untouched. He hadn’t taken a cookie.

  “She came to my house with Hillary and Sadie before they went trick-or-treating. They wanted to show off their costumes.”

  “So you know Meg?” asked Agnes.

  I was struck by her use of the present tense. “I know Sadie, and Meg’s a friend of Sadie’s. Of course I know them from school as well. Meg was in my general-science class last year.”

  “And what time did they visit you?” asked Donald.

  “Around six.”

  “And you didn’t see Meg again?”

  I didn’t speak for a moment. Then I said, “May I ask the reason for your interest? I’ve already talked to the police and it would seem these matters—if they are indeed significant—are a subject to be discussed between me and the authorities and no one else. At least I am under no obligation to answer your questions.” I got quite out of breath saying all that.

  The three looked at one another. Their expressions showed a friendly and mild exasperation, as if they had been afraid that my question might come up.

  “We’ve spoken to many people,” said Bauer. “We understand you’ve talked to the police, as have others. But we felt there’d be no harm in sifting through the material once again. Not that you’re hiding anything, but possibly the police missed something.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what made them competent investigators, but it seemed more protests on my part could be interpreted as defiance and I had to ask myself if it was worth the risk.

  “I didn’t see Meg again that evening,” I said.

  They asked more questions and I described how Sadie had come over to my house and how we had gone out to look for Meg and how Sadie had found the umbrella.

  “You were the one to call the police?” asked Agnes.

  I admitted I was. I tried to answer their questions coolly, without slowing irritation. I described how I had remained in Franklin’s house till midnight, then come home.

  “I have another question,” said Donald, “and I must say I have absolutely no wish to offend you.”

  I waited, expecting the worst.

  Donald glanced at Mrs. Hilton, who nodded to him in return. “What we would like to know is whether you are homosexual.”

  Though I expected to be surprised, I was shocked nonetheless. “My personal life is none of your concern,” I said.

  “We understand that,” said Donald. He again looked at the others for support, then he tried to smile affably. Though he looked cheerful with his large Irish face, he was not a man whom I suspected of much cheer. “You must see,” he continued, “that we are not asking for ourselves but
in the interest of finding the missing girls. Do you know other homosexuals in Aurelius?”

  I hesitated again. “I may.”

  “What about Jaime Rose?” asked Agnes Hilton.

  “Is he homosexual?” I responded.

  “What about Aaron McNeal?” asked Donald.

  “I very much doubt it. He has girlfriends all over town.” His question surprised me and I wondered if it had been prompted by Aaron’s friendship with Barry.

  Donald began to speak quickly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his big stomach resting on his thighs. “Whether you’re homosexual is your own business, but we wondered if there were an organization in Aurelius of gay men. We’d like the chance to address them, just to make certain that all possible avenues have been explored.”

  “We’ve talked to other groups too,” said Bauer. He described a group devoted to ballroom dancing that met at the Episcopal church and I found it incredible that he would compare an organization of gay men to a ballroom-dancing club.

  “We’ve talked to the Masons and Kiwanis Club as well,” said Agnes. They looked at me with kindly concern, as if there was something wrong with me. I looked back at them blankly, trying to hide the fact that I thought something might be wrong with them.

  “I know of no organization of gay men in Aurelius,” I said, which was true. In fact, I felt they already must know this, which meant they had come not for this sort of information but rather for the chance to look at me more closely.

  “I know you’re upset about the missing girls,” said Donald, leaning back in the chair, “especially since you’re close to Sadie. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened not only to the families of those girls but to the town as a whole.” He gently rubbed his cheek with his right hand, as if touching a bruise. “I’m sure you’re concerned with all that’s happened—the bomb scare at the high school, the death of that professor, and of course the mistrust. But our normal life won’t resume till we know what happened to Sharon and Meg. Their extraordinary disappearances has forced us to take extraordinary measures.”

  “Do you really think our lives will return to normal?” I asked. “Even if we learn what happened?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Donald.

  “But we hope so,” said Agnes Hilton. “And we certainly pray for that.”

  Thirty-three

  Two days after Halloween, Ryan Tavich got a telephone call. He heard a low female voice speaking in a whisper.

  “You can let Aaron McNeal out of jail,” she said. “He was with me on Halloween night.”

  The fact that Aaron was in jail in Potterville had been reported in the Independent.

  “And who’re you?” asked Ryan. He’d been expecting something like this. He tried to place the voice but couldn’t.

  “I don’t wish to say,” said the woman rather primly.

  Ryan made a regretful noise. “I’m afraid I can’t let McNeal go free just on your word. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know any of the particulars of the time he spent with you.”

  “Surely you can guess the particulars.”

  Ryan wondered if that was true. “But I still don’t know who you are. Why should I believe you?”

  “If I gave you my name, would you promise not to reveal it?”

  “I’d need to talk to you,” said Ryan.

  “You are talking to me.”

  “I’d need to talk to you in person.”

  “That’s impossible.” The woman’s voice rose a little.

  “Then Aaron will have to stay in jail.” Ryan waited.

  “But why?” asked the woman.

  Ryan decided to stop fooling around. “Because I want to talk to you face-to-face. Take it or leave it.”

  There was a pause as Ryan listened to the woman breathe. He heard a cash register ring somewhere behind her. Who still used an old-fashioned cash register? Captain Percy came into the office with two of his men. They walked over to a survey map tacked to the wall and Percy pointed to a spot north of town.

  “It would have to be very private,” said the woman.

  “Anywhere you want.”

  “If you were convinced that Aaron was with me, would you let him out of jail right away?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we should meet this morning.” The woman was silent for a moment. “What if we meet in the reference room at the library at nine-thirty. There’s never anyone there.”

  Ryan agreed and they hung up. He wondered about the woman. Her voice wasn’t a girl’s voice but he couldn’t guess her age. And he wondered about the cash register. He could see it in his mind’s eye—chrome with black keys—but he couldn’t think where it was. The library was three blocks away and Ryan decided to walk. Captain Percy and his men were still studying the wall map. In the past month, Percy had lost some of his military bearing. Not that he had become any warmer, he just seemed less confident. Like all of us, thought Ryan.

  Grabbing his sport coat, Ryan walked out of City Hall and turned right, up Main Street. It was a cool, sunny day and a few last leaves were blowing along the gutters. There wasn’t much traffic but he saw a few people he knew and he waved. Cars were parked diagonally in front of the Friends of Sharon Malloy. Sharon’s picture was on the right side of the door and Meg’s was on the left. Ryan passed Junior’s and the Key Bank. He passed Weaver’s Bakery and Malloy’s Pharmacy. The huge picture of Sharon in the window at Malloy’s smiled out at him. He glanced through the door but saw no one inside, or maybe he saw a movement—he couldn’t be sure. Reaching Carnegie Library, he climbed the steps and entered the general reading room. About ten people were looking through the newspapers and magazines. Ryan recognized nearly all and nodded to several. The librarian, Mrs. Wright, raised her eyebrows at Ryan.

  “I got to check some stuff,” he said. He hurried by her before she could offer to help and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The reference room was empty. The radiators were making clanking noises. Ryan took a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and sat down at a table by the back wall but facing the door. He opened the volume to an article on Tibet and began to glance through it. He thought how he would never visit Tibet and, for that matter, how he would probably never visit Europe. He wondered if he felt bad about that and decided he didn’t.

  Someone entered the room. It was Mrs. Porter, who worked at Malloy’s Pharmacy. He felt annoyed, afraid that her presence might scare away the woman he was supposed to meet. Then, to his surprise, he saw that Mrs. Porter was walking directly to his table, and, with greater surprise, he realized she was the woman he had talked to on the phone. It made him remember where he had seen the cash register; at least that was settled.

  Mrs. Porter was a respectable-looking woman in her forties, plain, but in good shape, wearing a three-quarter-length blue wool jacket over a dark dress. Ryan expected her to say something like, “I’m so ashamed.”

  Instead she said, “Is this good enough?”

  Ryan had seen her a hundred times but never outside the pharmacy. He realized he knew nothing about her. He vaguely remembered a Mr. Porter, but he had no idea what the man did. The woman had never been pretty, Ryan was sure of that, but she was well-dressed and her dark brown eyes were attractive. She was neither thin nor fat: compact, was how Ryan described her.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  She hesitated, then sat at the table across from him. She folded her hands in front of her. “Should I get a book too?” she asked, somewhat ironically.

  “If you like.” She didn’t move. Ryan looked down at his hands, which were square with short fingers. He looked at Mrs. Porter’s hands, which were large with long fingers, probably bigger than his own hands. “What’s your first name?” he asked.

  “Mildred,” she said.

  Abruptly, Ryan remembered she had been married to Rolf Porter, who ra
n the Century 21 real estate office and was co-chairman of the Friends of Sharon Malloy with Sandra Petoski. He couldn’t remember if they had children.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Aaron,” asked Ryan.

  “There’s no relationship. He’s come to my house several times and spent the night. I’m not sure if he’ll come again.” Her tone was slightly defiant, as if she expected Ryan to disapprove. She looked him in the eye without blinking.

  “And he was with you on Halloween?”

  “He left the next morning when I went to work.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “I’ve known who he is for years. A month ago he spoke to me in the pharmacy. Then he came in a day after that and we talked some more. Two days later he came to my house in the evening. I didn’t send him away.” Again her voice had a defiant edge. Ryan wondered what Aaron had found attractive about her.

  “What do you talk about?” asked Ryan.

  She appeared unsure for a moment, as if Ryan were suggesting that a man in his twenties and a woman in her forties would have no common subjects. “All sorts of things.”

  “Did he talk about Houari Chihani?”

  “No.”

  “Did he talk about Sharon Malloy?”

  “A little.”

  “Did he talk about his mother?”

  “Yes, a number of times.”

  “Like what?”

  “He talked about her sense of humor, how she was energetic, how she always seemed interested in him. He even talked about how she had brushed her hair.”

  Ryan had a sudden memory of Janice sitting before her mirror brushing and brushing for up to half an hour. The memory almost disarmed him.

  “Did he talk about her murder?”

  “Not directly. It’s a very painful subject for him.”

  “What about her relationship with men?”

  “He said that she’d probably had sex with over two hundred men in Aurelius. He was impressed by that. I asked if he was going to match her number with women and he said he might.”