‘I need you to meet me, Bessie—’
‘Stop calling me that! I haven’t been “Bessie” in years! My name is Elizabeth!’ she said.
‘You’ll always be Bessie to me,’ the voice said. ‘My baby sister.’
Elizabeth hung up, turning the phone off.
BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, 1999
I had to go to the funeral home and pick out caskets. This was all new to me. No one in my family had died as of yet, except for one grandfather, who died when I was twelve, and I had nothing to do with that funeral. Willis had taken care of the arrangements for both his father and his brother, but I hadn’t been involved in anything other than fixing food and trying to be supportive. This time, it was all on my shoulders. I figured, hey, I’m five foot eleven, weigh 170 pounds, my shoulders should be big enough.
I selected the caskets: three adult-sized oak cases with tufted sateen lining, and a fifty-year guarantee. One child-size casket, painted white, with a pale blue sateen lining. We arrived at a figure that took my breath away, but I signed on the dotted line. I figured I was in this for the long haul.
I spent that evening with my family, not telling anyone about the cost of the day. The hospital bill of over $1,000, the bill that would be coming from the funeral home for more money than I made on three books. I don’t know why I was shielding Willis from this. I guess, in some deep recess of my soul, I was afraid he’d leave me. I’d never worried about that before – about Willis leaving. But I guess I wasn’t all that sure about his strength. Oh, I knew he could bench press 300 pounds on a good day, but intestinal fortitude? That I wasn’t sure of. Dealing with the deaths of family members is one thing, but dealing with the deaths of friends is quite another. For one thing, you can reject that. Would Willis? Would Willis reject Bessie? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to push it to a conclusion. So I kept quiet.
The next morning I called Megan’s school and told them she’d be in later, and took her to the hospital to see Bessie. On the ride over, I told her, ‘Honey, Bessie’s not talking right now. She’s sick and she can’t talk. Do you understand?’
‘Why?’
‘Why what, honey?’
She sighed. ‘Why can’t she talk?’
‘Because she’s sick,’ I said.
‘She got a sore throat?’
How does one explain psychological repression to a four-year-old? Answer: One doesn’t. ‘Yes, Megan, she has a sore throat.’
As we were driving along, I noticed Megan looking out the window and up at the sky.
‘Honey,’ I asked, ‘what are you doing?’
‘Where are they?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Aldon and them. Are they in the clouds? Do the airplanes run into them up there in Heaven? How come they don’t fall down? Can you walk on clouds? Do they have bottoms?’
Megan has a tendency to run on and on, so I ignored her and kept driving. Finally from the back seat I hear, ‘Mommy!’
I turned to look at her. ‘What, honey?’
‘How come the airplanes don’t hit Heaven?’
‘Because Heaven’s higher than airplanes go,’ I answered.
‘Then what about spaceships, huh?’
Well, she had me there. ‘Spaceships go right by Heaven and don’t even know it’s there.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
Where was the Right Reverend Rush when I actually needed him? ‘Just because,’ I finally answered. Megan’s only four. She bought it.
When we finally got in to see Bessie, the private duty nurse we’d hired was sitting in a chair reading the Ladies Home Journal and Bessie was watching TV.
‘Hi, Bessie,’ I greeted. ‘Look who came to see you!’
Seeing Megan, Bessie didn’t smile, but she did lift her hand in a small wave. Megan ran over to her bed.
‘You sick?’ Megan asked.
Bessie nodded.
‘You gonna get better?’
Bessie shrugged her shoulders.
‘You’re gonna come live with me!’ Megan announced.
Bessie just looked at her.
Megan’s pouty look came to her face. ‘You wanna, dontcha?’
Bessie shrugged her shoulders.
Megan turned to me, a not so nice look on her face. ‘Mommy!’
‘Sit, Megan,’ I said, indicating a chair. ‘And don’t talk so much. Bessie’s not feeling well.’ I took Bessie’s hand in mine. ‘Honey, we love you very much and we’re going to be very happy to have you come stay with us.’
Bessie’s hand lay limply in mine. How much did she know? How much should I tell her, and when? And how did I keep Megan from blurting it all out? By leaving quickly, that’s how. And talking at some point to a shrink.
We said quick goodbyes and headed home. Later that night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep, Willis sat up with contracts spread over his lap, reading glasses on, and his bedside lamp lit. I was at that point somewhere between sleep and wakefulness – that twilight state. I saw the hospital corridor. It was dark, with only light from the nurses’ station spilling on the children’s wing carpet, all ABCs and 123s. I saw Bessie’s private duty nurse going down the hall – on her back. Someone was dragging her by the hair . . .
I sat up in bed gasping. Willis pushed his reading glasses down on his nose. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘She’s not safe there!’ I said, jumping out of bed and pulling on sweats.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘She’s a witness! If Roy didn’t do this, and I know he didn’t, then somebody else did and Bessie is a witness!’ I took a deep breath. ‘They may try to eliminate her.’
Willis burst out laughing. I swear to God.
‘You asshole!’ I said, grabbing my shoes and socks and heading for the door.
‘Honey, do you realize how silly that sounds?’ he said.
‘About as silly as what happened next door,’ I said, and left the room.
There was a guard at the door of the hospital when I got there. He opened the door a crack and I told him, ‘The doctor just called. My child’s taken a turn for the worse. I have to get up to pediatrics. Fourth floor.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, leading me to the elevators.
‘Thank you,’ I said as the elevator doors closed. I only felt a little guilty.
Once on pediatrics I looked down the long corridor. It was better lit than in my dream, but not much. The nurses’ station was empty. My feet made the only sound as I walked down the empty corridor. I opened the door to Bessie’s room slowly. The room was dark. A hand grabbed my arm and flung me to the floor.
FIVE
BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, THE PRESENT
Walking among them is such joy! They talk to me as if I’m one of them, and I have to hide my laughter at how stupid they are! Even my Bessie! She’s probably the stupidest because she saw me more than the others, and yet she still doesn’t see me! The real me! And it’s so easy to find out the things I need to know. Little things. I’ve had all the big things from the beginning. So easy to find out everything you need to know by just looking them up on the Internet. The man’s business is right there, telling me so much, and the woman’s dirty books are all over the Internet, all the filthy-minded women wanting to read her trash. And once I had those sites, so easy to get into the home computer and find my Bessie talking to her friends. And so easy to become one of her friends. I miss those idyllic days, when we were lovers on the verge, so happy getting to know each other. Ah, memories. So sweet.
E.J., THE PRESENT
My lazy summer was turning into a nightmare. Graham and his Lotta probably on the verge of doing the deed; Megan with her skater-boy out on the front porch doing God knows what; and Bessie – excuse me, Elizabeth – upstairs with Wednesday from the Addams Family, probably on the Internet finding hexes to put on me. Willis was on a project at work that kept him there all hours, and took him out of town at a moment’s notice. So I was basically on my own trying to corral my hormo
nally charged teenagers. At least Elizabeth wasn’t . . . Oh, Lord, she wasn’t gay, was she? I pushed that to the back of my mind and concentrated on dinner.
Still no move on the part of the stalker. It was hard not to be lulled into a false sense of security. It’s difficult to be on the defensive all day, every day. I felt somewhat safe at home because of my next-door neighbor, Elena Luna, who’s a detective with the Codderville PD. She’s also the closest thing I have to a friend, I’d guess you’d say. She’s been next door now for almost ten years, with just one other owner between her and the Lesters. She has two sons, one starting his senior year at the Air Force Academy in Colorado in the fall, and the other who will be going into his sophomore year at UT, my alma mater, come August, and a husband who will have served his twenty years at Leavenworth in eighteen more months and be on his way home. I’m anxious to meet him.
Luna had kept Willis and me abreast of the forensic findings from the cabin where the stalker had taken Elizabeth. There had been plenty of fingerprints – those of Elizabeth herself, as well as Graham and Manny, one of Lotta’s cousins, and several unidentified ones. Several of those were discovered to belong to hunters who had used the cabin over the past year – one of them having been fingerprinted for his job at the post office, two with fingerprints on file for military service. Leaving three other unidentified prints. One of those turned out to belong to the son of the man from the post office, a fourteen-year-old African-American boy. All of those who’d seen the stalker, even from a distance, were certain he’d been Caucasian. That left two still unidentified, with no hits on any of the files kept by law enforcement. The owner of the cabin wasn’t much help, Luna had told me, not keeping records of who rented it and taking only cash. There was also a good chance the stalker had used the cabin without permission – had never rented it in the first place.
‘The cabin’s a forensic nightmare,’ Luna had told me. ‘There’s trash everywhere. If we tried to get DNA off the gum droppings or the toilet, it would take close to one hundred years to get all the results and cost the department near to $1 million. So, chances are, we won’t be doing any DNA tests. Other than that, this asshole didn’t leave a credit card or his driver’s license that we’ve found yet. Which will probably be the only way to catch up with him.’
Dismal results, I know. I wasn’t sure how or if this maniac was going to be caught; I only knew I would never feel safe for my children until he was. How could I feel safe when Elizabeth went off to college, moved out on her own, got married and started a family? I don’t know that I ever could. But something told me this guy wasn’t going to wait that long.
BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, 1999
I felt a heavy weight on my chest. Then the lights were turned on, blinding me momentarily. When I could see again, I saw Bessie standing on tiptoe by the light switch.
A voice said, ‘Well, Eloise Janine, how nice of you to join us.’
I looked up into the face of Detective Luna, who sat astride me. ‘Would you mind getting your fat ass off?’ I asked.
‘You don’t have to get personal,’ she said, sliding off and standing up, one arm extended to me.
‘If I’ve ruptured a vertebra, who do I sue, you or the city?’ I asked as I grabbed her hand to stand up.
Bessie scurried back into bed, sitting up and watching us, her cocker spaniel brown eyes taking in everything.
‘Have to be me personally. I’m not on duty.’
‘Then what the hell are you doing here?’ I asked.
She sat down in the chair next to Bessie, her face turning red. I couldn’t help but break into a big grin. ‘I’m just this crazy lady,’ I said, ‘with this crazy theory about . . .’ Seeing Bessie out of the corner of my eye, I said, ‘You know what. Whatever can an actual police detective be doing here?’
‘On the off chance you might be right, I thought I’d just . . .’ She waved a hand as if swatting away her embarrassment. ‘Anyway.’
‘Were you here last night, too?’ I asked.
Elena Luna and Bessie exchanged glances. Bessie looked at me and nodded. I grinned again. ‘Bessie goes home tomorrow. You gonna come stay with us for a while? I can fix up the sofa bed in the living room.’
‘Go to hell – ma’am.’ She shrugged. ‘My mom’s in town for a couple of weeks. She’s staying with my boys. I didn’t have anything better to do . . .’
‘Luna, admit it!’ I said. ‘Admit you just might believe me!’
Again she shrugged. ‘There’s always the possibility you’re not totally wacko.’
I bowed. ‘Thank you.’
The next morning, before my ten o’clock appointment with Reverend Rush, I needed to do something. I needed to go into the house next door. Bessie would need clothes, toys, and other essentials. I took the key off the inside of the door to the Tupperware cabinet in my kitchen and, steeling myself, walked from my back door to Terry’s back door.
The large, square kitchen was the same. The butcher-block countertops, the Mexican tile floor, the almond appliances. Terry’s thatched roof canisters lined the back wall of one countertop in precise stair-step fashion, the matching cookie jar a space over. A spider web had formed in the stainless-steel sink. Glass canisters of pasta lined another counter. A letter and a couple of bills were stuck between the spinach noodles and the rigatoni. I stuck the letter and the bills in my pocket to take back to my house. The kitchen was, as always, spotlessly clean.
Except it smelled bad. Really bad. I got busy emptying trash and the fridge of perishables, dragging the stinking bags out the back door to where the large garbage cans resided. I put the bags in one and dragged the can to the street. The next day was garbage pick-up, thank God. I went back in the house. The smell was still prevalent. I looked under the sink and found the Lysol. I sprayed it generously, knowing it would help the smell. What it wouldn’t help was the fact that I still had to go up those stairs and down that long hall to Bessie’s room. I knew, standing there in the kitchen, that the stairs would be the same as I’d left them, minus little Aldon’s body. All the blood and gore would still be on the stairs and down the hall, and in the bedrooms.
At this point I could do one of two things: bite the bullet and go upstairs and get Bessie’s things, or go to the mall and buy her all new. Mentally figuring the balance of my check-book at the moment, I headed up the stairs. I hugged the inner wall – the clean one – of the stairwell and made my way upward. I averted my eyes from everything until I got to Bessie’s room, where I ran inside and began grabbing the necessary items. But leave it to a four-year-old not to have matched luggage. There was nothing to pack it all in. Why didn’t I grab a Hefty bag while I was messing with the garbage? Because I’m stupid, that’s why. OK, at this point there were again options: I could go downstairs and get said Hefty bag, or I could go into Terry and Roy’s bedroom and into the master closet where they kept their luggage and get a suitcase.
I went downstairs and got a Hefty bag.
Back at my house, I took the clothes and bedding to the laundry room. The stale smell of the house next door permeated the clothes. Or maybe just my nose – and a few other senses. Anyway, I wanted them washed. With the bundle under my arm, I headed for the washer. There on top sat a manila folder.
I dropped the clothes and looked at the folder. Friday, after school, while Terry was gone picking up the little kids, Monique, Terry’s sixteen-year-old, had come over, asking me to hide the folder for her. I opened it. Inside was an imitation leather-bound book with ‘Journal’ stenciled in genuine faux gold on the front. I leaned against the wall, the tears beginning to spill yet again.
I loved Terry as much if not more than my own sisters. But she, like everyone else in this world, had her flaws. One of them was not giving Monique her privacy – or even some space. Not yet being the mother of a teenager, I might be a bit off the mark, but I didn’t agree with Terry’s habit of rummaging through Monique’s drawers and closets, looking for her secrets. That’s why, the year b
efore, I’d agreed to let Monique receive mail at my house from a boy I knew her parents didn’t approve of. He dropped out of school the year before and joined the Marines. Monique and this boy corresponded regularly for three months, a letter every two days arriving at our house. Then one of them, Monique, I think, found a new love and the mail drop became a thing of the past. I truly believe that if Terry had had her way, banning Monique from writing or seeing this boy, the relationship would have lasted a lot longer, maybe all the way through boot camp and back home on leave, and God only knew what might have happened then. Or maybe I’m still rationalizing my own betrayal of my friend. Terry must have continued going through Monique’s drawers, and the teenager hadn’t felt it safe to leave her diary where her mother could get her hands on it.
I stroked the imitation leather and the faux gold lettering and thought of that beautiful young girl whose life had been snuffed out at so young an age. That beautiful girl who had so much to look forward to in life. I put the journal back into the manila folder, thinking I’d save it for Bessie. It would be a way for her to know her big sister. I stuck the manila folder on the top of the shelves in the laundry room, picked up Bessie’s bundle and loaded the washer.
ELIZABETH, THE PRESENT
The camp is really a beautiful spot. There are oak trees hundreds of years old – great climbing trees, with limbs growing low to the ground, but thicker than my waist – heck, thicker than Megan’s waist – and that’s thick! Haha! It’s shady there all the time, there are so many trees. Some of them pine trees, dropping their needles and cones everywhere. I’ve started a pinecone collection – only the biggest ones! I’m going to buy Mom a basket and buy some of that Christmas spray – you know the kind, smells like apples and cinnamon and other Christmassy things – and put the cones in it for her as an early Christmas present. I think it would look really good next to the fireplace. I saw that in one of Mom’s magazines.
The skies are always blue at the camp, and sometimes I let my kids lie down in the one open spot by the lake where there aren’t trees in the way, and we watch the clouds and I make them tell me what kinds of clouds they are (I’m very good at that) and then we just start saying what shape we’re seeing! It’s a lot of fun and the kids love it.
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