He starts crying. Oh God, let this be a dream, don't let me have done this, let me be sleeping while my brother does it. He paces up and down under the tree. He thinks Cheryl is watching him from the branches over his head, he thinks Bobbi Jo is on the other side of the tree, always moving so he can't catch her no matter how often he walks around the tree trunk.
He pounds his head against the tree until he feels blood run down his face. He's fourteen. How long will he have to live with what he's done? Forty years, fifty years, more?
He could get the gun and kill himself right now. Walk in the front door, go down the basement steps, lift the gun off the wall, and shoot himself. Bang. Just like his brother killing the girls.
He could but he won't. He's afraid to die, he's afraid of hell.
He wipes his forehead with his jacket sleeve and walks across the bridge, past the place where they died. His heart pounds, he gasps for breath, he's dizzy with fear. Their ghosts are here, he feels the ice cold touch of their fingers. With one on either side of him he runs, stumbling, stiff legged, sobbing, but they stay with him, laughing, calling him crater face, ugly.
You'll never get away from us, they say. No matter where you go, we'll follow you.
At the Reservoir with Charlie
Tuesday, June 19 Night
Nora
AFTER the burials, the Boyds and the Millers sponsor a dinner at St. John's school cafeteria. Ladies from the Sodality serve fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, cole slaw, string beans cooked with bacon, rolls, sodas, and brownies. Families sit together, mothers and fathers keeping their children close. Safe. The priest and the minister stand in a corner talking softly.
Ellie and I fill our plates and sit at a table with other kids from school. No one knows what to say, no one eats much. The air is heavy with sorrow. It suffocates us, mutes our voices. Everyone is scared.
Ralph should be here, but he's not. He wasn't at the funerals or the burials either. I looked for him. And, yes, okay, it's true, I looked for Don, too. I was hoping—and this is really awful—I was hoping he'd see me in my purple skirt and my white blouse with the little purple flowers and think I looked pretty. It's my church outfit. I've never worn it to school. I feel horrible for thinking about things like that at a funeral.
I can't look at the Millers or the Boyds. I keep thinking Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Boyd wonder why their daughters are dead and not Ellie and me. I wonder about it too. If Ellie and I had been ready when Cheryl and Bobbi Jo came to the door, would all four of us be dead? Or would four have been too many for the killer to shoot? Would all four of us be alive? My mind goes back to this over and over again. Was it fate? Was it chance?
If Cheryl and Bobbi Jo were alive, we'd probably be at the Bijou, eating popcorn and watching Picnic. We'd seen it twice already, but it's our favorite movie. Especially the scene where Kim Novak and William Holden dance. That's the part we love. She comes down those steps and oh, I wish I was just like her. Unfortunately I'm more like her kid sister, but there's always a possibility that maybe someday. Some Day. I can hear the song in my head, "Moonglow." I see them clinging to each other, dancing slow and sexy, swaying, like Cheryl and Buddy.
It's hopeless. No matter what I think of, I always come back to Cheryl and Bobbi Jo.
After a while, Paul and Charlie take Ellie and me aside. "Do you want to go for a ride?" Charlie asks.
Ellie and I look at each other. Yes, I think, yes, let's get away from all this death before I go crazy.
Ellie nods. "Okay."
We tell our mothers and then we force ourselves to say goodbye to the Millers and the Boyds. It's hard to look at their faces. Instead, I find myself staring at my feet and the ugly brown linoleum floor.
Mrs. Boyd hugs Ellie. "Don't be a stranger," she whispers. "Come see us. You've always been like one of the family."
"I will." Ellie hugs her hard and slowly backs away. She won't do it, I think. She'll want to, she'll think she should, she'll know she should, but she'll put it off day after day until it's too late to go. She'll avoid the Boyds, she'll stay inside if she sees them in their yard. And she'll feel guilty. She'll hate herself.
Or maybe that's what I'd do. Maybe Ellie will be brave and do what she should do.
Outside, the rain has slowed to a misty drizzle, what Mr. O'Brien calls an I rish rain, soft and warm. Paul's car is parked under a streetlight on a side street. The windshield shines with raindrops.
I climb in the back with Charlie, and Ellie and Paul get into the front. We head down Oak Avenue, passing all the places we know so well, including the Bijou. The billboard says PINIC is showing at four, six thirty, and nine p.m.
"That sign always has at least one missing letter," Paul says.
"Maybe they only have one C," Charlie says.
"There he is again." Ellie nudges Paul and points as a boy in a black suit turns a corner and heads down Chestnut Street toward the park.
"Who?"
"I saw him at Bobbi Jo's burial," Ellie says.
I crane my neck, but he's already out of sight, vanished in the rain.
Paul looks at Ellie, puzzled. "I saw lots of people I didn't know at the funeral."
She shrugs. "There was just something funny about him. You know, not ha-ha funny, odd funny. Like he didn't belong there."
I don't tell anyone I saw Buddy. Who did belong there. Even though no one else thinks so.
"Where are we going?" Charlie asks.
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't care."
"Not Top's," says Ellie. "I'm not hungry."
"Me, either," I agree.
"Just drive," Charlie says. "We'll know the place when we get there."
So that's what we do. Drive around town until it's dark. Paul heads out into the country. He stops at a liquor store on the edge of Route 40. Veteran's Liquor, it's called. A soldier's face is on the sign. His eyes are electric, they flash off and on, off and on, two bright blue bulbs. WINE AND SPIRITS SOLD WITHIN. It's been there since the war. My dad says they have good prices on Calvert whiskey and National Bo. He should know.
"Why are you stopping here?" Ellie asks. "We're underage."
Paul looks around the parking lot. When he spots a down-and-out guy sitting on the curb, he gets out and walks over to him. They have a short discussion. Paul gives the man money and gets back in the car. A few minutes later, the guy comes out with a case of Rolling Rock and something in a brown bag. He hands the case to Paul and sticks the bag in his jacket pocket. "Thanks, kid," he says, and walks away.
"Piece of cake," Paul says to Ellie.
"Drunks will do anything for a pint of whiskey," Charlie says.
Ellie and I glance at each other. It's a lot of beer for four people, I think, but I don't say anything. She doesn't either.
Paul pulls back onto the highway and heads toward Rockledge dam. It's a famous make-out place. Cheryl used to brag about the stuff she and Buddy did there. Most of the time I wasn't sure what she was talking about. Ellie said she made it up from stories in True Confessions.
"Did she cry the next day?" I asked once, and Ellie and I just about died laughing.
Before we turn into the parking lot, Paul cuts the headlights. "Just in case any cops are around."
He finds a nice dark place, far from the other cars, maybe half a dozen, and opens four bottles of beer and passes them around.
We sit there in the dark. Paul lights a cigarette and offers the pack to the rest of us. We each take one. Luckies. Unfiltered. Bits of tobacco stick to my lip, and I puff cautiously. I'm not ready to try inhaling again.
Charlie laughs at the way I smoke. "Oh, Long Tall Sally," he says, "you're the funniest girl I know."
I stare at him, wondering if my feelings should be hurt. After all, I'm not trying to be funny. But the thing is, it's the most normal thing anyone has said since the funerals. So I laugh too. It feels strange. Like maybe I shouldn't.
We drink our beer and talk about what we'll do this
summer. Go to the bay beaches, everyone agrees, play the nickel slot machines, maybe win enough to buy lunch. Go to Five Pines swimming pool, go to the quarry up in Rockland, take the boat across the bay to Tolchester. It's like we're trying to convince ourselves we can make this a normal summer, an ordinary summer, just like we'd planned before everything changed.
We talk about movies. The boys have no interest in seeing Picnic. "Even though it stars Kim Novak," Charlie says, "it's got a dumb plot."
They want to see The Searchers, but Ellie and I hate Westerns and John Wayne. Carousel is out because it's a musical and the boys hate musicals. Anyway, Ellie and I have already seen it twice. It's one of our all-t ime favorites. By the time we run out of movies, we've agreed to go to the drive-in next week and see Godzilla, King of the Monsters or The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which I think might be too scary for me but I don't tell them because they might laugh. But not tonight. Tonight we want to stay here in Paul's car and drink beer and smoke and talk.
After we've each drunk two or three beers, Paul says, "Do you think Buddy did it?"
It comes out of nowhere. The murders again. Suddenly nothing's normal after all. We're back to the day, the day, the day ... the day we all want to forget and can't. Cannot Forget. Not ever.
Ellie draws a deep breath and says, "Of course he did."
"Yeah," says Charlie. "Even if they never prove it, I know that bastard did it."
Paul nods. "That's what I think. Why else was he sitting there on the bridge?"
"Maybe he was waiting to kill Ellie and Nora." Charlie slides his arm around me and holds me tight, protecting me from what didn't happen but could have.
"Wait," I say, scared of what I'm about to say. "If he was going to kill us, why didn't he? He had a perfect opportunity."
"Those other kids were coming," Ellie says patiently. She's explained this before.
"But we got in his car," I say. "He could've driven us somewhere and killed us. If that's what he wanted to do."
They all look at me. "What are you talking about?" Paul asks. "Are you saying Buddy didn't do it?"
"Why would he want to shoot Ellie and me?" I ask, kind of losing track of my own argument. "It was Cheryl he was mad at. Not us."
"You saw him on the bridge," Paul said. "At the scene of the crime."
"Yeah," Charlie put in. "You had incriminating evidence."
"Then why didn't he run and hide before we got there?" I ask, back on track now. "Why would he hang around if he'd just ... if he'd..." The word "killed" sticks in my throat like a curse too horrible to say out loud.
Charlie strokes my arm. "What's wrong with you? Buddy did it. He should be electrocuted."
"That's too good for him," Paul says. "Put him in front of a firing squad and let him feel what Cheryl and Bobbi Jo felt."
I drink some more beer. I remember Buddy's face at the cemetery. How sad and lost he looked. How alone. "But what if he didn't do it?"
"What, are you in love with this guy or something?" Charlie asks me.
I know he's kidding, but I feel awkward, like a dumb kid. "I just don't believe he did it. And I feel sorry for him. How would you feel if everyone thought you did it?"
"But he did do it." Paul sounds angry now.
Charlie and Ellie agree.
And that's when I tell them I saw Buddy at the cemetery. "He looked terrible."
Paul stares at me. "That proves it. Murderers always go to the funerals of their victims."
"I'm surprised the cops didn't take him in for more questions," Charlie says.
Paul shakes his head. "They must not have seen him."
"Why didn't you say something?" Charlie asks me.
"It was a burial," I say. "I couldn't just shout, 'Look, there he is.' " By now I'm about to cry. They're all turning against me.
"Hey." Charlie touches my cheek. "It's okay. You believe what you believe—even if you're totally wrong."
"And she is," Paul mutters.
"Come on," Ellie says. "We've all had a really bad time. Don't make it worse by arguing."
Paul leans back in his seat. "Anybody else want another beer?" He gets out the church key and opens four bottles.
I take one and sip it. My mouth is starting to feel funny. A little numb, like when the dentist gives you a shot of Novocain. Is this my third beer or my fourth?
"I don't know about you guys," Charlie says, "but I could use some fresh air."
"How about a little stroll around the reservoir?" Paul opens his door and gets out. The rain has stopped and the stars are out. We follow Paul carefully down a steep, rocky path, slippery with mud. At the bottom, we stare across the dark water. There's no moon. Just stars. Ellie and I find the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. Paul points out Orion and Cassiopeia's chair. Charlie thinks he sees the North Star. That's the sum of our astronomical knowledge.
We sit on a ledge of rock. The boys gather sticks and twigs and chunks of logs and start a fire. In the woods behind us, crickets chirp. Somewhere a bullfrog croaks. Paul and Charlie put the rest of the beer in the water to keep it cool.
"Do you believe in God?" Paul asks us.
"Do you?" Charlie asks.
"I asked you."
"Yeah, but you can answer, can't you?"
"I do," Ellie says.
I stare at her. "Even now? Even after this?"
"I have to," she says. "Without God there's nothing, and that means they'd be dead and that's all. D. E. A. D. I want to believe they're in heaven, and you can't have heaven without God."
"Or hell," Paul puts in.
"But, Ellie," I whisper, "how could God let them die like that?"
"My father says we can't understand why God does what he does."
I'm thinking my mother said the same thing, but she didn't sound like she really believed it. Does Mr. O'Brien believe it?
Paul laughs. "That's why he's God and we're not."
Charlie opens another beer. "You mean we're not smart enough to be God? Even after eating the apple and all?" He laughs too.
I look at the sky. The universe, world without end, going on and on and on, impossible to imagine. Stars and suns and planets spinning. No God sitting on his throne up there, with angels and cherubim and seraphim praising him. And no souls of the faithful departed basking in perpetual light. Just space. Dark, cold, empty.
Charlie nudges Paul. "So anyway, do you believe in God or not?"
Paul shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'm an agnostic. Especially after what happened."
I surprise myself by saying, "I'm a pantheist." The word pops out of my mouth, and as soon as it does I decide yes, that's what I am. I also think I must be drunk, which makes me laugh.
"What the hell is that?" Paul asks.
"I read about it when I was doing my report on Wordsworth—you know, the poet we studied in English." I wave my arm at the woods and the hills and the reservoir. "God's in the sky and the trees and the water, all nature. He's way too big for churches and priests and ministers. He's just this huge gigantic force in everything, and he doesn't give a damn about us. We're just, just—ants. Ants. Stupid little ants. Who cares if we get stepped on?"
"And all this time I thought you were a Catholic," Charlie says. His arm slides around me, hugs me, and I try to relax against him, but I'm all tensed up.
"She is a Catholic." Ellie looks at me like she wants to ask, What's wrong with you? Are you crazy, are you drunk?
Yes and yes. Probably both. I lie back on the rock. The sky is spinning now, the rock is spinning, I'm about to break the laws of gravity and fly into outer space. I start to laugh, I laugh until I cry.
Charlie lies down beside me. "Don't cry," he whispers. His lips find mine and we start kissing, real kissing. I love the way his mouth feels, I love the taste of his tongue, I love the touch of his hands, and I don't stop him even when he unfastens my bra and touches my breasts. I know I should, I know it's a sin, but I don't care. I just want to keep doing what we're doing because it stops m
e from worrying about death and insanity and whether there's a God or not. I'm beginning to think it's okay if Charlie's shorter than I am. I'm beginning to think maybe I love him.
Charlie's hand slides under my skirt and moves up my leg, past my knee, heading toward my deepest, darkest place. I pull away from him, suddenly scared of what we're doing or about to do. "We better stop," I whisper.
"Yeah, I know." Charlie sits up with a sigh. "I guess I should take you home, Long Tall Sally."
I look at him, scared he's mad, but he smiles and takes my hand, pulls me to my feet, kisses me.
I smooth my skirt, he tucks in his shirt. We cling to each other, unsteady from the beer or something. I don't know. Really woozy. Dizzy, silly. I wonder what he was about to do, what it would have been like. I wish we could lie down and hold each other tight and sleep with each other all night. Not do anything. Just be together while the stars and moon spin round and round.
Charlie picks up an empty beer bottle and hurls it at a rock in the water. It smashes.
Ellie jumps up, frightened. Her blouse is half unbuttoned, her hair has slipped out of her ponytail. We look like two girls from a True Confessions story. I hope we won't be crying tomorrow morning.
"I thought it was a gunshot," Ellie whispers.
Paul hugs her, kisses her, comforts her. Charlie throws another bottle. I throw one. We laugh hysterically. The sound of glass breaking is exhilarating. We find bottles left by other people and throw them. Crash, bang, it's like the Fourth of July without sparkles.
After all the empties are broken, we stagger up the path to the parking lot, stumbling, slipping, falling. My purple skirt is ruined forever. My favorite favorite skirt, my favorite favorite blouse with the pretty little purple flowers. I'm going to be in so much trouble when I get home.
In the car, Ellie asks, "What time is it?" She sounds sleepy and slurry.
Charlie strikes a match and looks at his watch. "Oh my God," he says. "'It's two o'clock in the morning and we've danced the whole night through'—or is that three o'clock? Can't remember how the song goes. Two o'clock? Three o'clock?"
Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls Page 12