No Saints in Kansas

by Amy Brashear

  Kansas will get you, my pretty . . . and your little dog, too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-eight

  Half the names I’m called at school don’t even make sense. But it doesn’t matter—they all sting just the same.

  Bobby was smart to transfer to Garden. Landry caught a lucky break by moving away, too. I asked my parents if I could transfer to Garden, but they told me straight out, “You think it will be any better at Garden than it is in Holcomb?”

  People come to our house, stand outside, and taunt us. Adults, children, men and women, boys and girls. Age doesn’t make any difference.

  I’ve taken to hiding under a blanket on the couch.

  Actual classes are easy. You sit and listen, take notes, and answer questions when called on. Lunch is a problem, though. Chairs that I used to occupy are now taken. Dessert is my only friend. Brownies don’t judge me or look at me with disgust.

  The day before jury selection starts, Karen greets me at lunch with a smile as I search for an empty seat. “You can sit with us,” she says, pulling out a chair for me to take.

  Standing there with my sack lunch in one hand and a carton of milk in the other, I’m dumbfounded. “Why?” I ask slowly, watching as the other girls at the table whisper to each other. At least Mary Claire isn’t there. I haven’t seen her at lunch all week.

  “Sit,” she says.

  Pulling the chair close to the table I take my lunch out of the paper bag.

  “So, Carly, is it true that you’ve dined with the killers?” Karen asks.

  “Huh?” I say with a mouth full of peanut butter.

  “I knew it was true. Carly, how could you?”

  Swallowing hard, I say, “That’s not true. I haven’t eaten with Perry—”

  “That’s disgusting,” she interrupts, gagging.

  “What is?” I ask.

  “That you call the murderers by their first names.”

  I pick up my lunch and walk over to the garbage pail. Mary Claire bumps into me.

  Her eyes meet mine. Her lips quiver. She shakes her head.

  Starting to cry, I push her out of the way. I run down the hall and out the front doors. Forget school. I’m taking the rest of the day off.

  When I get home, Mom’s sitting on the couch, drinking gin right out of the bottle.

  I almost laugh. We all have hit rock bottom.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” she asks, trying to hide the bottle behind her back.

  But she gives up, wipes the mascara off her cheeks with her fingertips, and gulps down the gin as if I’m not standing there. She cries big elephant tears about being kicked off one more committee, asked not to attend one more function, and disinvited to one more dinner party. We’re outcasts, all of us. My family is the Southwest Kansas death plague starters. We are the rats.

  CHAPTER FORTY-nine

  Asher sits in the dark. The curtains are drawn and the TV is off. There’s no one in the house besides him and me. He just got back from talking to Mr. Capote.

  It turns out my brother was one of the last in town to talk to him.

  Not that I’m surprised. He was one of the first to talk to the police for the same reason: he always wants to do what’s right, and talking to Mr. Capote didn’t fit the bill. But in the end I think he felt pressured to, mainly by himself.

  In the shadows, I can see that his face is wet.

  “Kenyon was my best friend,” he says out of nowhere. His voice is hoarse, and it sounds as if he’s apologizing. Maybe he is, to himself. “Mr. Capote should know about him. But I’m afraid of what he’ll say in his article. I tried talking about who Kenyon truly was. That he was really smart. That he played basketball and was really good, too. Without his help, I wouldn’t have made the team. That he had a lot of friends. Mr. Capote didn’t care about any of that. He told me he heard Kenyon was a loner and that he didn’t talk much. But that’s all lies. That’s not the Kenyon that I know . . . knew.”

  I stare at him, not sure what to say, until he starts talking again.

  “I was such a fool. I told him about the last time I saw Kenyon angry,” Asher mutters. “It all started with a lie. Kenyon had this Ford Model A. It was from the twenties. It was an antique. It was painted blue but you could see the rust from underneath the chipped paint. Kenyon hated when anyone touched it, let alone drove it. Everyone was banned. But two weeks before Halloween . . . something happened.”

  I open my mouth to tell him, I know this story. Because I do. Mary Claire told me.

  But I also know it’s important just to let Kenyon talk right now. He’s been so quiet these days.

  He repeats pretty much what Mary Claire told me at the time: that it was all Nancy’s fault. Nancy stole the keys and made Mary Claire and Sue take it for a joyride with her. They made it to Coolidge, west on Highway 50, an hour from Holcomb, before it died. As in dead. Wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t start. They tried. It was as if the car were mocking them or knew what they had done.

  They had to get out and push it off the road before a semitruck rear-ended them. It honked its horn as it sped by. They sat on the side of the road with the engine smoking for a good part of a day. They couldn’t just leave it there, but they had no “carrier pigeons to contact anyone, either.” (Those were Mary Claire’s words, not Kenyon’s.) When it started getting dark, they started getting scared. It was Landry who drove by and found them. Pure luck. A coincidence. He was on his way back from picking up some grain in Holly, Colorado.

  “Kenyon was madder than I’ve ever seen him,” Asher concludes. “I tried to calm him down. But he stayed mad at his sister, even after Landry and I helped tow his Ford Model A, his baby, back to Holcomb.” His voice breaks.

  That was three months ago. But now Asher stays on the couch, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall across the room. I sit beside him.

  My fists are clenched at my sides.

  Dad has no idea what he’s doing to us.

  Asher made the basketball team; he is—well, was—the leading scorer. His minutes have dwindled in recent weeks, though. Now he doesn’t start. He plays less than half of each game. Coach says it’s his conditioning, but Asher doesn’t buy it. My parents aren’t the types to go make a fuss and demand to know why their son isn’t playing. So Asher’s left dealing with it himself. Sitting on the bench. Keeping it warm. Waiting for his name to be called again as part of the starting lineup. Calling out, “Fleming!” doesn’t go over so well.

  The son of the appointed defense attorney for Perry Smith isn’t someone you want making the crucial game-winning shot. When Asher does play, a hush falls over the bleachers. I wonder how long this will last. Through the end of basketball season? Forever?

  “I asked Dad yesterday if I could transfer to Garden,” Asher mumbles out of the blue. “But he said no.”

  I laugh grimly. “I asked, too,” I say. “He doesn’t understand what we’re going through. And Mom? Forget it.”

  “I don’t think Dad even took our feelings into consideration when he told Judge Tate yes,” he says. “He ruined my life.”

  I can tell he’s crying, but I don’t say anything to him about it.

  “If I did transfer, even though Dad’s being an ass—”

  “Asher.”

  “Sorry.” He sniffs. “But I’d have to sit out athletics for an entire year. Bobby has to sit out. It’s a waste of time. Life is such a waste of time.”

  “You can say that again,” I say, tucking my legs under my bottom.

  “Life is such a waste of time,” he says.

  I laugh. He does, too. He turns to me, smiling through his tears.

  “I hope the killers get death. Is it sick that I want to see them hang?”

  “I kind of want to see it, too, you know, for closure,” I say.

  “Closure? Is that what you’re calling it?” He flo
ps back into the cushions. “That’s better than me. I want revenge.”

  “And how are you supposed to get that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if Dad could hear you now, you’d be cruising for a bruising,” I say.

  “Carly, do you think revenge brings closure?” he asks. “Because I’ve thought of revenge almost every day. No one remembers Kenyon. And Mr. Capote didn’t even care to get to know him. He asked questions, but he didn’t write anything down.”

  I nod ruefully. “That’s what he does. The lady with him is the one who takes notes.”

  “She didn’t. That’s the problem. Their minds are made up on Kenyon. They don’t care what kind of person he was. The chapter on Kenyon Clutter has been written.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  At first, we think it’s a car backfiring on our street. Then maybe some rogue hunters on the prairie behind our house. But it’s neither of these things.

  “Don’t go outside!” Mom screams.

  Asher’s already out the door.

  We’ve been shot at.

  Asher finds a casing on the driveway. He holds it up.

  “Get in the house, now!” Mom yells from the front door.

  She and I hide behind a chair, as if the cushions are going to save us from stray bullets. Our first phone call is to Dad. He’s at the courthouse. Our second is to Sheriff Robertson, who instructs us to stay inside.

  Minutes later, Dad arrives. So does Audrey’s father. The sheriff doesn’t even come.

  “We’ll find out who did this,” the deputy says. He sounds bored. He smirks as he takes our statements.

  At this point, I do not trust police officers. I think of the words that got us to Kansas in the first place: Police misconduct. I find myself smirking back.

  perry smith’s attorney’s home shot at

  Children, Carly and Asher Fleming, students at Holcomb High School, were at the home at the time.

  I tried faking sick, but Mom saw right through that.

  I sit at the back of the classroom during English, my nose buried in one of the books Aunt Trudy sent me for Christmas, Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. She said I would love it. She’s right; I do. Holden Caulfield, why do people hate you?

  “Karen, do you think they were destined to die?” Mr. Hendricks asks during our class discussion of Romeo and Juliet.

  “They should have listened to their parents. They were being rebellious,” she says.

  With my head down, still attempting to read about Holden’s being kicked out of school, I say, “That’s ridiculous. It was their fate. Death was their only option.”

  “It’s your only option, too, right?”

  I look up. Karen is snickering at me. The rest of the class is, too.

  I close my book and throw it at her face.

  “Principal’s office, Miss Fleming—now,” Mr. Hendricks says, pointing at the door.

  I don’t even acknowledge Mr. Hendricks or any of my classmates. I grab my bag, pick up my book, and slam the door shut. I march myself down the hall and out the front doors. I’m not going to the principal’s office. I’m out of here.

  It’s like I have a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe and no one’s willing to tell me that it’s there. Trying to stay clear of people who recognize my face, I drive seventeen miles to Lakin to go to a grocery store.

  I almost laugh when I open the door. There’s only one other person shopping here. It’s Mrs. Smith, the wife of Dad’s new best friend at the courthouse: Dick Hickock’s appointed attorney. I barely knew Mr. and Mrs. Smith before January. Now Mr. Smith is at our house four out of five weeknights.

  When Mrs. Smith sees me, she runs right over. She places her arms around my neck and hugs me tightly. I don’t pull away. I need this hug. Besides, I like the way she smells (not of martinis); I like her soft skin and no-nonsense hairdo. I like that she’s what Karen wants to be but never could be: a real Holcomb woman.

  “Heavens to Betsy, I’m so glad that you’re all right,” she whispers. “Your family, too, I hope?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, trying to breathe.

  “Someone shooting at your house—thankfully, no one has tried anything at our house—at least no one was hurt.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pulls away and stands straight. “Don’t worry, child, things are going to get easier,” she says, flattening the fabric on my shoulders.

  That’s a big, fat lie she just told. My shoulders sag.

  “It’s been a rough couple of months,” I say.

  “Well, I heard from a little birdie that this Truman Capote and his friend, Miss Lee, are leaving soon. That’s a relief.”

  I smile up at her. “I agree.”

  “Well, it was nice seeing you. Have your mother call me, dear. I would love to go have lunch with her.” She pats me on the arm and disappears around a corner.

  Grabbing a bag of chocolate chip cookies; I head for the checkout counter. I wait behind some lady with a screaming toddler and distract myself with what my mom calls the “grab and add,” the things that you pick up on the racks in the front of the store that you don’t need. Time magazine sits between Ladies’ Home Journal and Cosmopolitan. I pick up Time for me and Cosmopolitan, with Lucille Ball on the cover, for Mom.

  There’s a new article about the case in Time. I get distracted until a man behind me taps me on the shoulder. I move up, placing all my items from my cart on the counter. Some high school student rings me up. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. He smiles, hands me my bags, and tells me to have a good day. And I think he means it.

  I should come to this store more often.

  At home, I give Mom the paper sacks and she fixes herself not one but two martinis. I watch as she gulps down the first, then starts to sip the second.

  “Mrs. Smith wants you to call her,” I say, trying not to sound disgusted. “She wants to have lunch with you soon.”

  “Oh, she does?” Mom says breezily. She smiles at me as if just noticing I’ve arrived and starts flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan.

  “Do you want the number?” I ask.

  “No.” She swirls a green olive around in her drink. “I think it is best that Mrs. Smith and I aren’t seen in public with each other, at least not until all this passes.”

  “Suit yourself,” I mutter. I take my cookies and Time magazine and head for the kitchen. With a big glass of cold milk, I sit at the table. I turn to page 18 and read kansas: the killers. It’s short, three paragraphs, but it’s the last sentence that gets me: Why did they kill the Clutters? Well, Hickock had an explanation. “We didn’t want any witnesses.”

  I dunk cookie after cookie into the milk until the bag is empty.

  Mom has her way of coping, and I have mine.

  The phone rings after dinner. Dad instantly thinks something bad has happened at the jail and quickly gets up to answer it. “Fleming residence,” he says. He frowns. “Wait, okay please . . . Slow down.” He turns to Mom. “Becca, it’s for you.”

  Mom’s forehead creases. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot. But she jumps up from the table and takes the receiver. “Hello?” she says. Then she lets out a little whimper. “Oh, no! What’s wrong?”

  “Dad, who is it?” I whisper.

  “Aunt Trudy,” he says.

  There’s dessert in front of me, but I’ve lost my appetite. Asher stirs melting ice cream with his spoon. We all look at Mom. Eyes wide and focused now, she turns to us, clutching her pearls. “I love you, too. I’ll be there soon,” she says into the phone.

  She shakes her head and slowly puts the receiver on the hook.

  “What?” Asher asks.

  “Aunt Trudy broke her leg.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” I ask.

  “Of course she’
s going to be okay,” she says, trying to be reassuring. Whether that’s for herself or for me, I’m not sure. Her eyes meet Dad’s. She walks toward him. “I’m going to go there and be with her. She needs me. Trudy doesn’t handle pain well—”

  “Wait,” Asher says, sitting up straight. His tone is flat. “What do you mean? You’re going to New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?” he demands.

  “As soon as I can,” she says.

  Dad reaches out and squeezes her hand. “That’s so sweet of you, dear.”

  Asher pushes his chair away from the table. It screeches on the floor. After a cold glare at Mom, he storms upstairs.

  Dad sighs. He probably doesn’t even understand why his son is so angry. But I understand perfectly. Mom has seized her first opportunity to run away. She could have easily said no. She could have insisted on staying with her husband and children. And the timing is suspiciously convenient, isn’t it? I wonder if she’s even telling the truth. Maybe she wanted to escape this nightmare so badly that she cooked up a plan with Aunt Trudy.

  If she did, I don’t blame her. I only wish they’d brought me in on it, too.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Carly,” Mom says, catching my stare. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Lies. More lies.

  “What a world,” I finally reply, thinking of the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Dad is still in the kitchen after ten o’clock. Instead of dessert plates, the table is strewn with legal papers. Late at night, he’s been turning this place into his office. I pour myself a glass of milk to take upstairs.

  “I’ll make a grocery run tomorrow morning after I go see Perry,” he says distractedly.

  “Can I come?” I ask.

  “No, you cannot come,” he says. He sounds tired.

  “But I don’t want to be here alone,” I say. “Please, Dad?”