I nodded affirmatively. I could hear a long exhale as she collected herself for a moment, then commented, “Tonight it feels like the devil won. I can’t imagine ever being happy again.” She slumped into her seat, having now used up the little energy she had left.
The fire didn’t bother me, except when I considered we were driving a gas-powered vehicle through an area with flames all around us. The burning was done annually. I’d driven through it before—a lot of people had—and I’d never heard of anyone being hurt from doing that. Yesonia was silent for the rest of the journey.
1:20 A.M., FRIDAY, JUNE 22,
PIERZ
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT MY PARENTS’ HOME, they didn’t hesitate for a moment to take Yesonia in. My mother, Camille, gently guided a mute Yesonia toward the kitchen, murmuring soft assurances and condolences to her as they moved down the hall. I knew there would be homemade bread sliced and served with jelly preserves, and chamomile tea brewing in no time. As comfort went, Yesonia couldn’t be in better hands.
I quietly discussed the dangers Yesonia was facing with my father, to ensure he had a solid grasp of the situation. As safety went, my dad was your guy. He once nearly shot Serena, as he was tucked away with his rifle protecting his home and those of us in it. I knew he would do what it took to make sure no harm came to Yesonia.
My schizophrenic brother, Victor, looked on from the living room doorway, watching both scenes unfold, processing everything in a way only Victor could. After dealing with Ava’s insults, he was understandably hesitant, but seeing Yesonia’s shaken state, he eventually conceded to another guest and returned to his room. As a paranoid schizophrenic, Victor never minimized anyone’s fear. As listeners went, Victor was one of the best. He would sit and listen to anyone who wanted to talk to him, for as long as they wanted to talk. Sometimes, I’d ask Victor later what a conversation had been about and he’d shrug and say, “I didn’t understand it, but they needed to talk, so I listened.”
I respected Victor for his kindness. It was painful to imagine what it was like for him, to constantly have ideas no one else understood, or to have a legitimate insight into an issue that others dismissed because of his mental illness.
26
JON FREDERICK
7:00 P.M., FRIDAY, JUNE 30,
PIERZ
ICALLED YESONIA EACH NIGHT to check on her. My parents loved her—she was humble and respectful. Sensing her growing boredom with country life, my father made attempts to introduce her to the more interesting landmarks in the area. On one such day, he took her on a drive to the wooded area East of Buckman, which borders Hillman, where abandoned homes sat lifeless on weed-ridden, forgotten plots of land.
My father pointed to a particularly odd grouping of shacks, and explained with a laugh that this was where the infamous Gwiasdowski brothers once lived as hillbillies making moonshine. They got in trouble one time for soaking the wool sheared off their sheep in used crank case oil, so they’d get more for it when it was sold by weight. Two of the brothers lived in train boxcars they had bought and deposited in the woods. The remaining two built a house with a ceiling one inch higher than the tallest brother, to prevent waste. Later in their lives, the brothers ended up at St. Mary’s Villa, and swore like demons any time they were asked to bathe. Dad remembered one of the brothers telling him, “They expect us to bathe every week, whether we need it or not.”
My dad got such a kick out of that story, his laughter grew heartier as he told it. Soon Yesonia was chuckling with him. She especially enjoyed the part about how they had the meanest dog alive and stored all their money under the doghouse. The home and boxcars were now gone, but there was still a haggard old hunting shack on their wooded land.
TODAY, OUT OF THE BLUE, my mom insisted I come and get Yesonia, as she was kicking her out of the house. I couldn’t imagine what Yesona could’ve done that would have resulted in this about-face from my mother.
My farm home was like a time warp. If Dad was home alone, the music filling every corner of the home would be that of Credence Clearwater Revival or Lynard Skynard. If my mom was home, you’d be tapping your foot to Roseanne Cash or Emmy Lou Harris.
Today, there was no music when I entered, a clear sign of trouble. Bill and Camille had taken one side of the rectangular kitchen table, while Victor and Yesonia sat across from them. Dad wore his usual flannel shirt and tattered jeans, his rugged features leathery from a lifetime of outdoor work. Mom had long, reddish hair with a hint of gray. She wore a sensible, forest green button-down shirt with jeans. The expressions on both of their faces were anything but warm.
Victor’s thinking was so far outside the box, sometimes you’d simply hope he could find his way back to it. He had long, dyed-blond hair and a brown moustache. He wore a black t-shirt that read, What if the Hokey Pokey Is What It’s All About? Yesonia was clad in an off-white peasant top, with smocking at the neckline and billowy sleeves. Her jeans were fashionably faded and intentionally ripped. When I saw the two of them holding hands, Victor, age thirty-three, and Yesonia, age nineteen, my first thought was Yesonia must be comforting him.
Camille started, lips pursed in pious consternation. “Jon, ask your brother what he was doing this afternoon.”
Bill sighed and rested a calloused hand on her arm, in an attempt to calm her, “Don’t be so hard on him, now, Camille. This might be the most normal thing he’s ever done.”
Victor smiled at Dad’s approval, turned to Yesonia and said, “Just say yes.”
She grinned with embarrassment and turned toward me defensively, “We’re both adults.” Yesonia shot a look at me that was briefly pleading, and I steeled myself for the rest of the story.
Camille turned to Bill, “Enough of this tit for tat. Let’s show a united front.”
Victor turned to Mom and casually asked, “In that saying, what does tat mean?”
Camille sat forward, a shrill tone cutting through her usual kind voice. “I will not have that under my roof ! I will not advocate premarital sex.” She sat back and roughly folded her arms over her chest.
My dad looked to me for assistance. While he was trying to keep a stern expression to support my mom, there seemed to be a glint of pride in his eyes. He surreptitiously winked at me, then resumed his impassive demeanor and scooted his chair closer to Mom’s.
I stared dumbly at Victor, then at Yesonia, trying to process what I was hearing. I struggled with my own conflicts. Victor had always been on the outside looking in, due to his mental illness. None of us expected him to ever have a “normal” relationship, so to speak. I never would have predicted that something would occur between my brother and Yesonia. A part of me was a little happy for him. The other part was the law enforcement official in me, having trusted that Yesonia was there to be protected and not be put in a position of involvement in any kind of romantic tryst. Furthermore, having a child out of wedlock made me the wrong guy to give anyone a lecture on premarital relationships.
I pleaded with my parents, “I don’t have another place to hide Yesonia.” I turned to my brother, attempting reason. “Victor, could you agree to not have sex with Yesonia for a week?”
Victor was gloating. He gave this about two seconds of thought and said, “Absolutely not. This was the best day of my life. I read if two people want to be together, they will find a way to make it work. So it’ll be work, but we’ll make it together.”
Yesonia affectionately squeezed his arm, “You’re so funny, V.”
I didn’t think he was trying to be funny, but I didn’t want to rain on his parade. An ill-managed chuckle escaped from Bill, and Mom threw her hands in the air in disgust. Camille scolded her husband, “You are of no help!”
In a soft, respectful voice, Yesonia intervened. “I know this seems so irresponsibly impulsive, but it wasn’t. I mean—I know it’s only been a week, but Victor and I walk together and talk for hours every day. Not any of that pretend internet stuff. I’m talking about face to face, sometimes holding hands,
honest reflection.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed, “When do you walk?”
Yesonia glanced down, obviously embarrassed over sharing more than she intended. “Late at night. We walk through the woods, along the river, about the farm. Victor taught me I don’t need to be afraid of the dark. It’s still the same farm. It’s just that the lights are off. And, by the way, I’d like to be called Sonia now. Leah always wanted me to go by Sonia, so it makes me feel like she’s still with me.”
Lacking an appropriate understanding of social cues, Victor shared, “On hot humid nights, we dip into the river.” He was making no effort to hide his glee, and, secretly, I didn’t want him to.
Attempting to maintain reverence for my mother, Sonia shared, “Even my therapist tells me V’s been good for me.”
Camille lamented, “Well that explains why you take a nap every night after supper.”
I saw the expression on my mother’s face. I knew what was coming. Morality was not negotiable with Camille.
Mom told Yesonia, “I am deeply sorry for your loss, and I am hoping you continue to come over and help me with the food drive, but you can’t sleep here anymore.”
Victor asked, “Then why can Jon and Serena stay?”
I could see a trace of tired guilt on Mom’s face.
Dad knew Mom and quickly said, “Because Jon and Serena are a family, and they will be married.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re asking us to be a hotel while you’re learning to date. We can’t do that.”
Camille patted Dad on the arm as if to say “good job.”
Ever the supportive husband, Bill straightened up and cleared his throat. He didn’t look at me when he directed, “Jon, you need to find another place for this young woman to stay.”
Having no other choice, I left to find a place to keep Yesonia safe. I considered my options. I couldn’t have Sonia stay with Clay, as he’d be sleeping with her in less than a week. I trusted Jada, but she was never home—and the fact that she had been at the bar the same night Maddy was drugged with ether put her too close to the killer.
I swear, everybody in my family is nuts—myself included. But honestly, I was happy for Victor. Nobody should have to be alone forever. I found myself knocking on the door of Serena Bell’s parents’ home. Serena answered, wearing a black blouse with a simple white floral design around the edges and slim white pants. Her beauty almost made me step back, it struck me so. Her emerald eyes glistened like sunlight reflecting on Alexandrite—the most valuable of all colored gems. Serena’s chocolate-hued hair had caramel highlights, and with its natural curl, it just looked delicious. Her petite form was soon joined by our pretty little Nora at her legs, so I scooped up our daughter and held her close. I missed her so intensely at times my heart hurt, but holding her was instant gratification. I treasured that moment, then said to Serena, “I have a favor to ask of you …”
27
SERENA BELL
5:30 P.M., SUNDAY, JULY 2,
PIERZ
I’D BEEN ANXIOUS TO MOVE OUT of my parents’ home for some time, so I didn’t mind Jon inviting me to live with Nora in the home he was building near Pierz. I agreed to take my furniture out of storage and, with Jon purchasing a few items, the home was made functional.
My guest, Yesonia, was kindly playing with Nora while I unpacked and found places for necessities. Jon had just finished assembling the shelving for the bedroom closet and joined me in the kitchen.
I set a mug down on the island countertop—it was made of black granite with Micah chips that reflected rainbows on the kitchen ceiling when the sun was shining. It was one of a thousand little things Jon researched and did right, making my need for distance from him that much more difficult. I told him—or maybe was telling myself, “You know this move is only temporary.”
Jon wryly retorted, “None of us is going to live forever.”
I confronted him. “Tony told me someone tried to kill you—twice. He said we should be safe in Pierz. This is exactly why I can’t have Nora with you in the city.”
“I get it,” Jon responded, his disappointment palpable. “That’s why I built this house. I’ll do something else.”
“You enjoy your work, and you’re good at it.” How could he consider giving up the job he worked so hard to realize? What have I done to this good man?
He calmly stated, “Would you give up Nora for a job?”
My stomach churned with trepidation as I struggled to find the right words to tell Jon some difficult news. He stood in front of me, and it didn’t help that my body was betraying me—my entire person was hopelessly drawn to his strong, fit body. When I looked into his sad, blue eyes, they seemed to be pleading with me not to speak.
I swallowed hard and put it out there. “Jon, I’ve been seeing someone.” I willed myself to keep eye contact with him, as my senses screamed for me to look away.
He took a deep, troubled breath, and said, “That’s what I’ve heard. I thought it couldn’t be true, though, because you’d tell me, right?” He searched my face for answers, and I somehow managed to keep my expression even.
I loved Pierz, but small town gossip could be faster and crazier than the internet. My dad used to say if you fart in Pierz, by the time you got to Genola—a mile away—you’ve blown up the gas station. I powered through. “I’ve talked to him, briefly, a few times, but this week was the first time we met for lunch.”
Jon’s face was frozen in place as he asked, “Who is it?”
“Does it make any difference?” Oh, God, I didn’t want to have this conversation. I couldn’t stand to hurt him more than I already had.
Jon’s voice was laced with pain. “It does if he’s around my daughter.” His eyes bored into mine, and it was all I could do to maintain the contact.
I tried to console him. “Jon, I wouldn’t do that to you. He hasn’t been around Nora. He won’t be.”
Jon’s facial features tightened as he bit back an emotional response. He stated, in his best business-like tone, “I don’t want him in my house.” He was looking over the top of my head as he declared this.
“Okay,” I said carefully, my discomfort getting the better of me. I could feel his anger vibrating under the surface. I suddenly had unexpected and unwanted visions of Jon becoming someone I’d never known. These flashes unnerved me, as I’d only ever known Jon as a sweet and kind soul—someone nearly incapable of violence. I was aware my trauma was probably messing with my perception, but still. It felt more real than I wanted it to. My muscles began to tighten reflexively.
It had to be confusing for Jon—this thing we’d been doing. And I didn’t know what to call it, besides a “thing,” because it was confusing for me, too. Jon asked me to sleep with him, and I did. If I was being honest, I looked forward to those times. But the reality was, it was too scary to be in a relationship with him—to love him like I had loved him. I couldn’t live that way, feeling brittle and uneasy. My nights were filled with nightmares of being attacked by a psychopath; my waking hours were spent wringing my hands over whether Jon was going to be killed at work.
I could hear him swallow hard as we both unsuccessfully searched for words. I could feel his heart breaking, and I felt like the worst person who had ever lived. I wanted to take it back, but it was out there now, occupying the entire space between us. Maybe there wasn’t room for words.
Jon stepped forward as if to hug me, and I closed my eyes and dropped my arms in anticipation. It was meant to symbolize a surrender to my fears, but he must have taken it as a rejection. Instead of hugging me, he stepped around me, and said goodbye to Nora, then headed for the door. It was typical of our communication, recently—when we weren’t making love.
AFTER JON HAD DEPARTED and Nora was napping, Yesonia—or Sonia, as I was corrected—and I sat at the kitchen table and talked. I’d brewed some tea, for no other reason than to keep busy while my thoughts were swirling. Sonia was kind but unsure of herself, so I was shocked when she challenged me. “
What is wrong with you?” Her timid demeanor hardened into something accusatory.
Taken aback, I asked, “What do you mean?”
Sonia seemed to hear herself and deflated into her chair. “I can’t afford to get kicked out of your house because I have nowhere safe to go. So tell me if I should just shut up.”
“Well, I’m not sure what just happened, but I’d like you to tell me what’s on your mind,” I encouraged her. I understood her emotional turmoil. “You’re safe here.”
Sonia began mindlessly spinning her cup of tea in slow rotations, not having taken a single sip. “Okay. Jon loves your daughter, and you trust him with her. And he loves you. And you light up like a Christmas tree when he’s around—but, if I heard right, you just dumped him?”
I bristled. “It’s not just about me anymore—you don’t get it. I have Nora. I’m a mother now. I want her to feel, to be safe.” I silently prayed I wouldn’t have to explain all that had happened to me, hoping I could keep this conversation contained.
“What if Leah’s killer maybe didn’t shoot at Jon? What if he shot at me? Do you want me to leave?”
“Of course not.”
Sonia prodded, saying, “Do you think Nora feels safer with you or with Jon? After watching him play with her, she seems to feel pretty safe.” She took a sip of tea to make her point. I almost smiled at her grimace. Tea wasn’t for everyone.
It was too much to explain, so I just said, “It’s his work, Sonia.”
Sonia pushed her tea away and stood up. She stalked away from the table and then returned with a restless fury. “Okay, I’ve got to say it. I’m alive because of Jon. He is the reason people like me don’t get raped and murdered, and you’re telling me you can’t love him because of that?”
“It isn’t that simple.” I nearly heard my vertebrae click into place as my spine straightened defensively.
The I-94 Murders Page 17