I decided not to think about it and went into the kitchen to start dinner.
GRAHAM, THE PRESENT
I’ve got so much on my mind I can barely think. This was probably the first year since Myra came to work at the church that I haven’t had wet dreams about her. I almost feel guilty about that, although I know her death had nothing to do with her not being featured nightly. And then there’s Lotta. I’m pretty damn messed up about Myra, but how much do I let show to Lotta? I mean, the girl’s jealous, ya know? And man, was I right about that ugly Christine! I shoulda figured the only way a girl could be that ugly was if she was a guy!
The girls, my sisters, are pretty torn up about Myra. And then there’s the whole Christine thing for Liz. I mean she really got to like and trust that bitch – or should I say bastard, now that I know. It’s just unfair what this guy is doing to her. If I could get my hands on him for five minutes, I’d let him know just how unfair I can be!
Lotta and I went out on her usual Wednesday night off, but neither of us felt like going to the movies. So we grabbed some burgers and Cokes and went out in the country to a back road to eat and talk. And whatever.
‘How are you holding up?’ she asked me, halfway through our burgers.
‘Huh?’ I said, mouth full of cheeseburger. I swallowed, then said, ‘Fine, I guess.’
‘You guess?’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means if you have to put an “I guess” on the end, then you probably aren’t “fine”.’ She hit me on the arm. ‘You think I don’t know you used to have a crush on Myra—’
‘Crush? Hell no! Guys don’t have crushes, for God’s sake.’
‘Oh, really? What do guys have?’ she asked.
‘The hots,’ I answered immediately, without thinking it through.
‘Oh. You had the hots for Myra?’
‘Ah . . . No, not really. Yeah, you’re right, it was just a little crush, I guess.’
She leaned over and kissed me. ‘You’re so silly. It’s OK if you had the hots for Myra. White guys do that—’
‘White guys? Hey, now—’
‘Don’t get all huffy. Latino boys don’t go for older women because that reminds them of their mothers, and Latino boys have a thing for their mothers—’
‘God, you talk about white people stereotyping Latinos—’
‘Is it stereotyping if it’s true?’
‘Are you saying every single Latino boy in the world doesn’t go for older women because they have a thing for their mothers—?’
‘Hey!’ she said, slapping my arm again. ‘I didn’t mean a thing for their mothers! I just meant they respect their mothers and would always think of an older woman like a mother—’
‘Whoa now! Are you saying because I’m white I don’t respect my mother?’ I was getting hot. And not the good kind of hot.
Lotta was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘I guess I was stereotyping.’ She leaned over and kissed me again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘All I really wanted to say when I started this conversation was that you have every right in the world to grieve about Myra. She was someone you’d known for years, someone you liked, in whatever way that may be. Don’t hide your feelings for her death because of me, OK?’
I pulled her closer to me. ‘OK,’ I said, and kissed the top of her head.
BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, 1999
After church, and after a quick lunch for the kids and Willis, I headed into Codderville. At first I didn’t even think about the day before, I was so intent on my mission, but when I got on to the highway into Codderville, my body reacted before my mind did. My hands began to shake so hard I could barely hold the steering wheel, while my eyes were darting back and forth from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors, looking, I suppose, for black vans. None to be seen.
I took the first exit into Codderville and pulled into a service station, stopping the engine and sitting for a moment. The station was closed on Sunday so I was able to sit in absolute silence. Someone had tried to kill me yesterday. Me and my kids. Someone wanted us dead. Or someone wanted Bessie dead. And I had started that. Me. With my big mouth. I had set the wheels in motion that could cause the demise of Terry’s only surviving child, and my kids and me to boot.
Somebody had killed the Lesters. Murdered them. If I’d had any doubt before, if somewhere in my being a nagging atom wanted to blame Roy for the deaths of his family, it was gone now. I was convinced. The black van was no coincidence. Definitely no accident. I hadn’t cut anyone off, hadn’t stolen a parking space, hadn’t been driving too fast, too slow, or over the line. I hadn’t committed any violations that would inflame a motorist to mayhem. It had been deliberate. Attempted murder. But the police didn’t think so. Even if they did, even if I could convince Elena Luna that someone was out to get Bessie, I hadn’t gotten a license number. There was no way to trace the black van. I wasn’t even sure of the make and model. It could have been Japanese or domestic. It wasn’t a Volkswagen, of that I was sure. But that was all I was sure of. Except that someone had tried to kill us.
I shuddered and looked around. Here I was at an empty gas station right off the exit ramp of the highway, right next to the access road. There were no other businesses on that side of the highway. To get to Codderville, you had to go up a block, under the highway overpass, and then into town. I sat there, in a different car from that of the day before, but still – I started the engine and got the hell out of there.
The office supply store was open. I went in and looked at the binders and pads and forms. I wanted something to organize my pain. Put it in neat little piles. After ten minutes of looking I found it. The Office Organizer. It was eight and a half by eleven inches, had a brown leatherette binding and, when you opened it up, on one side, up in the corner, were ‘while you were out’ slips for messages, right next to a ‘things to do’ pad. Under these was a leatherette sleeve for catching loose pieces of paper – like receipts and bills. On the other side were two five-by-six-inch yellow-lined notepads. Under these was an address book and, next to that, a five-year calendar. It cost $13.95 and was worth twice that much to me. It would make everything better. I knew that. In my heart and in my soul.
ELIZABETH, THE PRESENT
I’ve been thinking about suicide for the past two days – not doing it, just the whole concept of suicide. For the first time in my life, I think I understand why people do it.
Guilt: it was my fault Myra was killed. If this pervert wasn’t stalking me, Myra would be alive.
Loss of Hope: I thought this guy was gone, then he comes back, and I know he’ll be back yet again.
Betrayal: I thought Christine was my friend. I trusted her, relied on her. Cared about her.
So I can see, if one was so inclined, why one might off oneself. Not that I would, although the concept seems like a natural offshoot of what I’ve been through. I’ve done my birth family an injustice. I haven’t really thought of them much since they were murdered ten years ago. I tell myself it was because I was so little and hardly remember them, but the truth is that the Pughs made me a part of their family so totally that it was easy to forget my true family. I’m not blaming Willis and E.J. (sorry, I can’t bring myself to call them Mom and Dad anymore). I’m sure they did their best. But maybe it’s time I moved on. I think I could be an emancipated minor, under these circumstances. I’ll Google it.
E.J., THE PRESENT
Saturday morning, Luna’s day off, she came over for a coffee klatch. As we’ve never done this in the ten years I’ve known her, I was slightly suspicious.
‘What’s up?’ I said, starting a new pot of coffee and checking the freezer for any pastry-type nibbles I might have hidden up there. I found half of a coffee cake in the back, took it out, set it in a microwaveable dish, and offered Luna a chair.
‘I just wanted to come over and see how the kids are,’ Luna said.
I shrugged my shoulders th
en checked on the coffee. Still doing its thing. ‘I haven’t actually seen Elizabeth in three days,’ I told her. ‘She’s hiding in her room. Graham and Megan are all right, I guess.’
The coffee was through, as was the coffee cake. I distributed coffee into cups, cake on to plates, found a slab of real butter in the back of the butter thingy in the fridge, put it all on the table, with paper towels as napkins, and felt a Martha Stewart flush come to my cheeks.
‘Thanks,’ Luna said as I placed her goodies in front of her. As I sat down, she said, ‘Look. I know what you’re going to say, but this has to be broached.’
‘What?’ I asked, feeling that not-good feeling in the pit of my stomach.
‘My lieutenant is insistent that we put a guard on Bes— Elizabeth,’ she said.
I didn’t blow up. Couldn’t imagine why I would. My child’s welfare – her actual life – was at stake here. A guard sounded good to me. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘When will this start?’
‘Today,’ she said. ‘I’m moving in.’
‘Excuse me?’ OK, now I was indignant.
‘You’ll all get twenty-four-hour surveillance. I’ve told the boys to stay at school for a while, which they took very well, the little bastards. I’ll spend the nights with you, and we’ll have a uniform with you during the day.’
‘Hey, a squad car coming by three or four times a day would be nice, but—’
‘Sorry, no buts. This is what the higher-ups want. This is what the higher-ups get. You really don’t have a voice in this, E.J.’
Well, shit, I thought.
ELIZABETH, APRIL, 2009
‘You don’t believe it’s Aldon, do you?’ Megan asked.
‘Of course not,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I mean, you can’t for a moment think Mom and Dad had anything to do with what happened to your family!’ Megan said.
‘Let’s just drop it,’ Elizabeth said, getting off the bed and turning the computer off at the box. ‘No more IMs right now, thank you,’ she said.
Megan stared at her sister. ‘Mom and Dad loved your parents,’ she said. ‘We were all one big extended family, Mom said.’
‘Let’s drop it, Meg,’ Liz said.
Megan stood up from the computer chair, looking hard at her sister. ‘If you believe any of this, Liz . . .’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said, turning to Megan and staring hard at her. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Megan nodded her head slowly. ‘OK, then. Well, we’re on for tomorrow night, right?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Sure,’ she said.
Megan left her room and Elizabeth laid down on the bed, curled into a fetal position. There’s no way it’s Aldon, she told herself. No way in hell. Aldon’s dead. My mom and dad are dead. Monique’s dead. They’ve all been dead for almost ten years. Dead and gone.
Her fingers reached out for the bejeweled silk drapes that passed for swags on her four-poster bed, the drapes that used to hang in the living room of their home next door. The drapes she’d used to pretend she was Princess Jasmine from Disney’s Aladdin, the drapes she’d hide behind to sneak up on Aldon or to listen in on Monique’s telephone conversations.
She’d only had them, her family, for four short years, and her memories were sporadic at best. Daddy laughing at something Aldon said, the huge sound of his laughter that shook his whole body and made everyone around him smile. Watching Monique put on make-up at her little dressing table, the care she’d take to cover every blemish, darken every lash. Sometimes she’d let Elizabeth try on some lipstick or eye shadow – once she even put the make-up on Elizabeth herself, and when Elizabeth looked in the mirror she thought her reflection was beautiful. She remembered her mother didn’t think so, and Monique got in trouble. Oh, God, how she remembered her mother – holding her at night, reading her Dr Seuss or Goodnight Moon. She could still smell her – that scent of lemon and flowers, the cool touch of her fingers, the warmth of her lips on Elizabeth’s cheek or forehead.
She tried to think of her time here, with Mama E.J. and Daddy Willis. They’d been good times. So many more years with them than with her real family – make that other family, birth family, whatever. Real family didn’t sound right. The Pughs were her real family – legally adopted. That made it real. And they loved her. That made it real.
She began to cry, the first time she’d cried for her forgotten family since she was a little girl.
BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, 1999
We got a name from a neighbor for a counselor for Bessie and she suggested, under the circumstances, that I come in to see her alone right away. Her name was Elaine Comstock and she was a five-foot seven-inch blue-eyed blond. She definitely wasn’t toothpaste-commercial pretty, but she had a face full of intelligence and strength. I liked her immediately. We went into her office and sat.
‘Usually I like to give my clients a little breathing space, but I don’t think we have time for that,’ she said with a smile.
‘I understand and I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.’
‘Dorothy said you’re burying the child’s family tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure at this point if Bessie even knows they’re dead. She can’t speak, as I said, so I have no idea what she knows or thinks or feels.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s suffering a little amnesia right now. A form of blocking. Usually, if a child is old enough, I feel they should go to the funerals of their loved ones. It’s a closer, a way of saying goodbye. But under these circumstances, I’d say no, wait. The lack of speech is a fairly serious development. I’d like to work on that a while, letting her tell us finally what’s going on. Do you understand?’
I nodded my head.
‘Later, when she’s ready, she can go to the cemetery and have her own goodbye ceremony with her new family.’
Again I nodded.
‘Now, how are your other children handling her?’
I shook my head. ‘I think Megan’s mad because Bessie won’t speak, but she won’t say anything to me because I told her not to be mad. Dumb, huh?’
Elaine smiled. ‘Not dumb,’ she said, ‘ill-informed. Megan is probably not reacting to Bessie as she normally would, and that’s not helping Bessie. I understand your wanting Megan to be sensitive to Bessie’s needs, but a four-year-old is not necessarily capable of that kind of compassion without getting a little bit miffed.’
Light dawned. Megan wasn’t an unusually rotten child! She was normal!
Elaine stood up and I followed her out to the reception desk. To the receptionist, she said, ‘Dorothy, set Bessie up for a play session as soon as possible.’ To me she said, ‘I’d like to set one up with Megan, too. These two are very connected, from what you tell me. They’ve been best friends forever and now they’re going to be sharing a room. They’re going to be sisters. We need to make sure there aren’t any hidden problems that could backfire later.’
I nodded. I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. ‘How much?’
‘Seventy-five dollars an hour.’ Elaine smiled. ‘But most insurance companies pay for it now. Check with yours.’ She put her hand on my arm and squeezed. ‘There’s no charge for today, of course. And we’ll defer any payments over the insurance coverage until after the estate is through probate.’
I almost burst into tears. ‘Thanks,’ I managed to get out.
‘Dorothy will give you the times for Bessie and Megan’s play sessions. Good luck.’
NINE
There’s a squad car parked – parked – outside Bessie’s house. I thought at first it was just one of their older cars, just parked there to scare me – as if – but I used my binocs to look in the windows and I saw some asshole in uniform sitting at the old bitch’s table filling his pie hole!! They think this is going to keep me from her??? They’re crazy! All of them. Bessie is mine and she’ll be with me while the others rot in hell!
Having never lived with Elena Luna, there were things that I didn’t know about her, even though I’ve kn
own her for ten years. Things like the fact that she actually wears rollers in her hair to sleep, plays with her toenails when she watches TV, and thinks atlases are great bedtime reading material. And, if anyone had asked me, I would have said without thinking and without a doubt that Elena Luna of the Codderville Police Department wore a T-shirt to sleep in. I would be wrong. To Willis’s chagrin he discovered, as he headed to the kitchen for a midnight snack, that Luna, on her way to the kitchen for the same purpose, wore a black lace teddy to slumber land.
My first thought upon hearing this was that Luna, alone now for fifteen plus years while her husband whiled away his time in Leavenworth, was going after my husband. And who could blame her? Even in his mid-forties, my Willis was seriously hot. Shortly after Mr Hot Stuff left for work, I bounded – OK – I trudged up the stairs to Bessie’s room, now designated the guest room, and burst in. Luna was awake, sitting up in bed, feet on the floor, and wearing the seductive teddy. Except it wasn’t all that seductive. Except maybe to a man who never saw his own wife – EVER – in a black lace teddy. The one that adorned Luna was probably twenty years old or older, had rips in the lace and bleach stains on the faded black body, and was obviously entirely too tight for the good detective.
‘Hey,’ she said, looking up at my abrupt entrance to the room. ‘Sorry about last night. Did Willis swear off women forever?’
‘I think he thought you were hot,’ I said, sitting down beside her on the bed.
She hooted with laughter. ‘Why in God’s name would he think that?’
I shrugged. ‘I doubt he’s ever seen a real live woman in a teddy before. I don’t own one. Never have.’
‘Hum,’ she said, looking down at herself. ‘Eddie bought this for me on our last anniversary before he was arrested. It was like a week before. When he got convicted, he asked me to wear it every night so he could go to sleep seeing me in it and knowing we were connected. I started to give it up when I started showing with Ernesto, but Eddie would comment on it and so I kept wearing it. I don’t know now if he envisions me in it as I look now, or if he still sees me the way I looked when he gave it to me.’ She shrugged. ‘Leavenworth doesn’t give conjugal visits, so he doesn’t know.’
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