No Saints in Kansas

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No Saints in Kansas Page 3

by Amy Brashear


  “Oh. Do you mind if I ask which one?” Mr. Clutter asked.

  “He has a morbid curiosity,” Nancy said with a smile.

  I shook my head. “Frank Beggett.”

  “Yes. So, your father defended him? I remember reading about that case in the newspaper.” The “defended him” implied judgment.

  I slowly nodded. I was trying to stay cheery.

  “We all need good defense attorneys, even when we get to heaven. Do you go to church?” he asked, probably thinking that this New York City lawyer and child were heathens.

  “Yes, the First Methodist Church in Garden City.”

  That seemed to shake Nancy out of her doldrums. “You do?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.”

  “We usually sit in the back,” I said, cutting my pancakes.

  “This Sunday, sit up close, so the good Lord and all of us can see you,” Mr. Clutter said, handing each of us a napkin.

  Kenyon came down a little later. When he saw me, he said hello right away. He knew me, of course. He’d been over at our house a lot. Apparently, Asher can make friends real fast. Me? Not so much.

  When we’d finished, Nancy took our plates to the sink. Her father nodded approvingly. “I’m proud of you, Nancy, for befriending a new student. Doesn’t Nancy make the best tutor?”

  “Tutor?” I echoed slowly.

  “She’s a good student,” Nancy piped up. She grabbed my hand, ushering me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “I’ll do the dishes later, Dad,” she yelled from the landing.

  “But I’m tutoring you,” I said as she closed the bedroom door.

  “I know, but I can’t let my dad know that. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

  I stared at her, baffled, as she flopped down on her bed. “So you’ll let him believe a lie?”

  “It’s not a lie. I can tutor you in something, too,” she said. “What subject are you struggling in? How about Kansas history? You know nothing about Kansas history, since you’re an outsider.”

  “Kansas history?” I repeated. I almost started laughing.

  “Yes! I taught everything Sue needed to know.”

  I took a moment to consider what Nancy had just let slip out. Sue Kidwell was practically joined at the hip with Nancy when they were out socializing, at the 4-H or at school. But thinking about them now, I realized Sue always seemed to follow Nancy’s lead. It was always Nancy asking Sue, “Doesn’t this sweater look pretty?” or “What do you think of Bobby’s truck?” And Sue would nod or shrug or laugh or shake her head. She’d give whatever response Nancy was looking for.

  “Sue’s not from here, either?” I asked.

  Nancy shook her head. “She’s from California.”

  “Righto.”

  “California. Doesn’t it sound exotic?”

  Then I did laugh.

  “New York sounds exotic, too,” she said, smiling back at me.

  “It can be.”

  “But not like here. We have blizzards,” she said.

  “So do we. I mean, when I lived there, we did.”

  “Yeah? But not like here.”

  Now Nancy had a cover. We didn’t even have a class on Kansas history. It was just a ploy for her parents—really, her dad—so he wouldn’t find out that she was failing geometry. But it worked. Her grades went up. And what do you know: I learned some interesting facts about Kansas. Like, Dodge City was dubbed the “Wickedest Little City in America,” so that’s why Dodge City High School’s mascot is a Red Demon. The Arkansas River is pronounced “R-Kansas,” not like the state of Arkansas at all. And cow patties aren’t some pie or cookie, and a cow-chip toss isn’t some game where you eat with your hands afterward.

  She did tutor me in her own way, I suppose.

  Beyond the fake class, I learned a lot of hands-on Kansas stuff by joining 4-H, which I wouldn’t have known about if it weren’t for Nancy. My dad thought it was a good way to make friends and Mom thought it was a good way to get involved in the community. She’s a big fan of community involvement. She was right, too, because that’s where I got to know Mary Claire.

  I knew who she was before I started going to 4-H, so that helped. The first time I officially met Mary Claire, though, was when her dad hired my dad for some legal matter. Some land dispute that he had with a neighboring farm. Mr. Haas came by our house to sign some papers and brought along his daughter.

  Mary Claire’s family owns Haas Feed Yard. With over forty-five thousand head of cattle, it’s one of the biggest in the state. The first time I ever saw a cow slaughtered was at her house. It was a year ago, October. Mary Claire had just showed her Texas Longhorn at the Kansas State Fair in Hutchinson. She got a ribbon, but if I remember correctly, she wasn’t too happy with the judge’s decision with the color she got. Most people were showing their Herefords and Holsteins. Mary Claire assumed hers was unique, but the winner ended up being Brandon Dalton, a boy who lives in Cimarron. He had the newest breed, a Charolais—a French cow. Mary Claire had never liked Brandon; this pushed her over the edge.

  Once we got back to Holcomb, she declared her losing Texas Longhorn, appropriately renamed B.D. (after Brandon Dalton), would be slaughtered. Mary Claire’s got a dark side.

  That morning, I stood off to the side with Nancy. She made her famous award-winning cherry pie for dessert. B.D. would be the main course. We watched as Mr. Haas loaded his .22 rifle and aimed for the kill shot, an invisible X above the eyes. He squeezed the trigger. I couldn’t look. I grabbed Nancy’s hand and, like Mr. Haas, squeezed hard.

  “You don’t want to watch?” Nancy asked.

  My entire body shook. “No,” I squeaked out.

  Nancy laughed. “City girl.”

  Then there was screaming. At first I didn’t realize that it was me.

  Mr. Haas looked at me and shook his head. “City kid,” he said.

  B.D. fell to the ground with a loud thud. Nancy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me closer to the fallen Texas Longhorn. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to just be this “city kid.” I watched as Mr. Haas handed Mary Claire a hunting knife and let her cut B.D.’s throat. The blood drained out onto the ground. I thought I was going to throw up.

  “Come here, girls,” Mr. Haas said to Nancy and me.

  Nancy and I moved toward dead B.D.

  “I need the both of you to pump the leg up and down a few times to help get the blood out,” he said, showing us what to do.

  Nancy got down on the ground and I did the same. I wanted to ask for gloves but thought that would be a “city kid” thing to do. I grabbed the front leg and started jerking it up and down, watching as the blood poured out of B.D.’s neck.

  “See, you can do this,” Mary Claire said, wiping the bloody knife on her apron.

  The rest of the girls were inside with Mrs. Haas, cutting potatoes and carrots for the sides. I wished that I had stayed inside to help with that chore.

  “Did that move? Did his back leg just move? Oh dear lord, he’s still alive . . .”

  Mary Claire laughed at my jabbering. So did Nancy. Thank goodness Mr. Haas had walked away and wasn’t in earshot any longer, or he would’ve, too, and then called me “city kid” for good measure.

  “It’s just his unconscious reflexes,” Mary Claire finally said.

  “His what?”

  “Even decapitated animals will kick.”

  “I don’t think I want to see a decapitated animal.” I blew my hair out of my face.

  Mary Claire and Nancy looked at each other and snickered. Mr. Haas walked out of the barn, carrying a large saw.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Let me! Let me!” Mary Claire squealed.

  Mr. Haas shook his head. We three moved out of the way and watched as Mr. Haas cut off B.D.’s head with sharp, straight motions.

 
“Oh my God, what in the world just happened here?” I said, covering my mouth.

  Those were my last words before I passed out.

  When I woke up, Mr. Haas was removing B.D.’s testicles, while Mary Claire and Nancy were removing the front feet and lower legs.

  “Welcome back, city slicker,” Foreman Taylor said, lending me a hand.

  Foreman Taylor is tall and always wears overalls. The cowboy hat he wears all the time kind of smells like pee. He supervises everything on the Haas family farm.

  I stood and wiped the dirt off my pants.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Haas said. “I’ve got the most important job for you yet.”

  I tried to smile.

  Foreman Taylor and Mr. Haas loaded up B.D. on the tractor and took him to where they could finish butchering him. Mary Claire, Nancy, and I followed slowly behind.

  “You still look white as a ghost,” Nancy said.

  “Yeah, you do,” Mary Claire agreed.

  I was real quiet. I didn’t know what Mr. Haas had in store for me. We entered the slaughterhouse; B.D. was hanging by a shackle. Foreman Taylor had already started to skin him.

  “Let Carly,” Mr. Haas said.

  “Dad, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Mary Claire interjected, trying to save me from this torture.

  “Nonsense. She’s got to learn how to live off a farm.”

  “But her dad’s a lawyer,” Nancy said. “If we’re doing stuff our parents do, she’s just got to learn how to defend people.”

  “Yeah, I need to learn how to do lunch and get a person off,” I said, shaking.

  “Still, everyone should know how to slaughter an animal,” Mr. Haas affirmed.

  I didn’t even want to know the reasoning behind that.

  “Come on, Carly, I’ll show you how it’s done,” Foreman Taylor said.

  I took a deep breath and climbed a small ladder to stand beside Foreman Taylor. He grabbed my waist so that I wouldn’t fall into B.D. Nancy and Mary Claire cheered me on from down below.

  “Quiet, girls. Carly needs to concentrate so she doesn’t cut herself,” Mr. Haas said.

  I didn’t even think about that. Foreman Taylor handed me the sharp knife and showed me where to cut into the cowhide. I took another deep breath and laid the knife onto the hair.

  “I’m so sorry, Brandon Dalton,” I said, making my first cut.

  “Don’t talk to it,” Mr. Haas said.

  Mary Claire and Nancy laughed. A long piece of skin fell to the ground.

  “Good job,” Foreman Taylor said.

  I handed the knife to him and made my way back down the ladder. Foreman Taylor and Mr. Haas finished up B.D. while Mary Claire, Nancy, and I made our way to the main house. Once outside, I threw up.

  “Are you all right?” Nancy asked as I wiped my mouth on my apron.

  “Uh-huh,” I answered.

  “I can’t believe you apologized to B.D. before you skinned it,” Mary Claire said.

  “How polite of you,” Nancy said with a laugh.

  “Next weekend, I’ll have you milk a cow,” Mary Claire chimed in.

  “Milk a cow?” I asked.

  “Yes, milk a cow,” she said, showing me how with her hands. “You know some weird guy was doing some dirty stuff when he discovered milk came out of udders.”

  She and I laughed, but Nancy just rolled her eyes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Here and now—a lifetime (four lifetimes) away from that day on the Haas farm—Agent Dewey pulls out a little black notebook from inside his black jacket and flips it open. “When was the last time you talked to Nancy?” he asks.

  “Saturday night. I called the house to remind her about bringing the dress to Sunday school.”

  “Dress?”

  “For the Sadie Hawkins dance on Friday. She made this red velvet dress for 4-H and promised me that I could borrow it for the dance. I’m going with Seth Patterson.”

  Her math grade went up a whole letter grade, I add silently. I know she was trying to say thank you in her own way. Lending me the dress wasn’t a public acknowledgment that we were friends, but it was a step in that direction.

  “And what time did you call her?” he asks, ready with a pen.

  “I don’t know, maybe around eight o’clock. She said that Bobby was over at the house. We didn’t talk long.”

  “So that was the last time you talked to her?”

  I stare at him for a long while. I guess I never thought about it like that. Agent Dewey waits for me to answer his question.

  “Yes, sir. She said that she would write herself a note so she wouldn’t forget,” I tell him.

  Agent Dewey opens the folder and pulls out a clear plastic bag marked EVIDENCE in scary black capital letters. Inside is a note written in Nancy’s handwriting.

  Remember dress for Carly

  “I had to know what this meant,” he says. He sticks it back in the folder and closes it before I can take a closer look.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to harm the Clutters?” he asks.

  “So does this mean that Bobby isn’t a suspect anymore?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “Bobby. He was her boyfriend—”

  “Carly, I’m sorry,” Agent Dewey interrupts me, “but I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you.”

  “But you want to know my opinion about who did it?”

  His face softens. “I do.”

  “Honestly, I can’t think of a single soul who would want to harm the Clutters. Can you?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After school, Mary Claire convinces me to meet Seth and Alex. She’s curious to see where the police are dragging the Arkansas River. I admit I’m a little curious, too. It’s blocked off, though, and you can barely see the boat out on the water.

  Mary Claire explains the situation to the boys, who clearly have no clue what’s going on. A net latched to a hook is pulled through the water and dragged along the riverbed. The police hope a gun will get caught in the net. But Mary Claire bets they’re just pulling up vegetation and rocks.

  “I bet they find it,” Alex says.

  “I bet they don’t,” Seth says.

  This goes on for a good five minutes before Mary Claire gets annoyed and practically gets on her hands and knees, begging me to go with her to get a pop at Hartman’s Café.

  “I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow, right, Seth?” I ask.

  He turns to Alex and mumbles something under his breath.

  “Seth, you’re going, right?” I ask, with my hands on my hips.

  He doesn’t answer at first, but I finally wear him down enough to confess that he and Alex are going fishing tomorrow. I stand there, my shoes covered in mud, my mouth wide open, unable to say a word.

  Sitting in a booth at Hartman’s Café, I lay it all out there while slurping down a chocolate milk shake.

  “My boyfriend has to be the biggest jerk ever in the history of jerks. His friend is dead and all he can think about is going fishing,” I say, loudly enough that people in the café turn and stare.

  “You know that’s Seth,” Mary Claire says, dismissing everything I just said with a shake of her head. She leans close, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “I talked to Sue last night.”

  “Is she all right?” I gasp.

  She shrugs. “How could she be? She saw her best friend’s brains outside of her best friend’s head.”

  “Mary Claire Haas!”

  “What?”

  “Who do you think did this?” I whisper.

  “I think they have a suspect.”

  “But he didn’t do it.”

  “Why do you care? Nancy told me that you two aren’t friends—”

  “I know that we aren�
�t friends,” I say shortly, cutting her off. “Weren’t friends.”

  For a long time, there’s silence between us until I break the tension by tossing twenty-five cents on the table and scooting out of the booth. “I’ll prove to everyone in town that he didn’t do it,” I say, throwing my scarf around my neck.

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I don’t know. But I will.”

  Turning, I walk right into Landry Davis.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I’ve known Landry ever since his family moved here from Olathe, right after his uncle Thomas died. It was a runaway tractor accident last spring. They found him “a little bit to the south, a little bit to the north, and a little bit to the west” on the Davis farm. Those were Mary Claire’s words. She thought they were funny. They were a little, I guess.

  His funeral was the first I’d ever been to. We went because my dad was his lawyer. He handled his estate. Mary Claire and I sat a few rows back from Landry. I remember stealing glances at the back of his head, wondering who he was. It was a strange service. You were sad that the man was dead but also wondered what was in the casket. Since they didn’t exactly find a whole body. What were they burying?

  This man I didn’t know, Thomas Davis, was dead. I don’t think I really understood what was happening. Death was a stranger to me. My parents tried to explain it. Heaven. Hell. But it didn’t make sense. I just remember thinking that I hoped I didn’t become acquainted with it for a very long time. Besides, it was a freak farm accident. Nothing malicious about it. The police didn’t suspect foul play. But no one knows exactly what happened that day in April. Lots of theories, but no one was there to prove if any of them were true.

  Foreman Taylor found him—well, pieces of him. It ended up being quite a jigsaw puzzle. The coroner arrived, laid out a white sheet on the ground, and started to put him together again—just like Humpty Dumpty. Or so says Mary Claire. Thinking about it makes me sick, but she loved to needle me with details. It was hard. The pieces were tiny, bloody, and crushed. It was impossible. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

 

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