Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls

by Mary Downing Hahn

  I hug my old bear and try to imagine myself in Paris, walking down the Champs-Élysées, passing sidewalk cafés, buying pastry, meeting a tall, handsome Frenchman. I wonder if you can buy Gauloise cigarettes in America.

  Just before I fall asleep, I think of Buddy. Why, I don't know. He's about as far from a romantic Frenchman as you can get. But there he is, his hair shaved off for the navy, leaning across the car to kiss me. I wonder where he is right now and what he's doing.

  A few hours later, I wake up with a jolt, stunned, not sure where I am or who I am. Slowly my room comes into focus. It's still dark, but I make out the Virgin Mary on my bureau, my collection of china dogs at her feet, pictures on the wall, no more than dim outlines of faces, moonlight spilling through my window. My room, my place, my things, everything as it should be but dimly seen, colorless.

  The dream comes back to me, far more vivid than anything in my bedroom.

  It's dark and rainy. Two girls are standing in an empty parking lot facing a rundown diner. Most of the lights in its sign are missing. Behind the girls is a dark road with a traffic light blinking red. The only building besides the diner is a boarded-up gas station. Not a car in sight. No noise but the rain and the wind.

  I can't see the girls' faces. It seems to me I know them, but I'm not sure. For some reason, I'm glad their backs are turned. I don't want to know who they are.

  The younger girl looks at her friend. "Where are we?" she asks.

  The other girl seems as puzzled as she is. "I was hoping you could tell me." She starts rummaging in her purse and pulls out an empty cigarette pack. "Damn, I could use a smoke."

  "Should we go in there?" The younger girl points at the diner.

  "It looks deserted."

  "The lights are on."

  I know the younger girl wants to go inside. Her hair is wet, her full skirt drips water. She's cold. She'd like something warm to drink. Coffee, maybe. Hot chocolate. Tea. Something to cup her hands around and sip slowly. Something to warm her. Something to comfort her.

  "They'll have a cigarette machine," she tells her friend, "right by the door. Diners always do."

  I don't want them to go into that diner. I want to stop them, but I know this dream won't let me interfere. It's like a movie. You know the heroine shouldn't do something—open the door, go down in the cellar, get into the stranger's car—but you can't stop her. She's in a movie. She can't hear you. Her role is written and can't be changed.

  So I watch the girls I may or may not know run across the parking lot. They jump over puddles, swinging their purses on long straps, eager to get out of the rain. Why do they look so familiar? Why do I think I've seen them do these things before?

  The older girl gets to the door first. The glass is steamed up, but when she pushes it open, the bluish light inside makes her blond hair glow white.

  They don't know it, but I'm right behind them, scooting through the door before it closes.

  There's no cigarette machine. The diner is silent, but all the booths are filled with people. Their heads are down. They neither move nor speak. No motion. No force. Under a harsh light, the waitress scrubs the counter.

  How did the people get here without cars? They must have walked, but from where? I didn't see any houses. They watch the girls seat themselves at the counter. Their faces are sad. As they whisper to each other, the diner fills with the dry, rustling sounds of their voices.

  The waitress doesn't look up. Her hair is bleached. I can see her dark roots.

  Without looking at the girls, she asks what they want. Her voice is gruff. The words sound like she's been chewing on them.

  "Do you sell Winstons?" the older girl asks. Why is her voice so familiar?

  The waitress shakes her head.

  "Marlboros?"

  She shakes her head again. She still hasn't looked at them.

  "Well, what kind of filter cigarettes do you have?" The girl's voice has an edge I've heard before. She gets mad quickly. How do I know that?

  The waitress lifts her head and scowls. She reminds me of my aunt Joan's Boston terrier. She's got the same broad face with droopy jowls, a short flat nose, a wide mouth, and bulging eyes. It wouldn't surprise me if she barked.

  "Are you stupid or something?" the waitress asks the girl. "We don't have any cigarettes. Not with filters. Not without filters. Not mentholated either. None as in none. Zero as in zero."

  "How about coffee?" the younger girl asks. Her voice has a desperate edge. "Do you have that?"

  The waitress shakes her head and gives the counter another wipe. "No coffee. No tea. No sodas."

  "What do you have?" The girl is close to tears.

  "Water." The waitress fills two glasses and sets them down in front of the girls. "That'll be twenty cents each."

  "Twenty cents for water?" The girls stare at the waitress.

  She shrugs. "Take it or leave it."

  "At home, water's free."

  "Well, you're not home. Are you?"

  The girls open their purses and pull out their wallets. "I could have sworn I had a dollar," the older one says. "How about you?"

  The younger girl shows her an empty coin purse. "I thought I had fifty cents from babysitting for the Morans, but it's gone."

  The waitress snatches up the glasses, dumps the water in the sink, and moves away from them.

  "My God," the older girl says. "I can't believe this. Is she crazy or just plain rude?" She sounds angry and scared. Before she does it, I know she's going to give the waitress the finger.

  The waitress is too busy scrubbing the counter to notice.

  "Let's get out of here," the younger one says.

  A woman who's been sitting silently at the counter turns her head to face the girls. "If you leave," she asks, "where will you go?" Her voice is soft and kind.

  The man beside the woman says, "Don't get involved, Stella. Let them figure it out for themselves."

  "But they're so young," she says. Her eyes linger on the girls, taking in their wet skirts and blouses, their soggy white moccasins, their rain-soaked hair. "Almost children."

  He shrugs. "Have it your way. You always do."

  "Where are you girls from?" the woman asks. She's not ancient but too old to call by her first name. She has the same sad look everyone in the diner has.

  "Elmgrove," the older girl says, "near Baltimore."

  I must know them, I know I know them, but I can't remember their names.

  "How long have you been here?" the woman asks the girls.

  "In the diner, you mean?" the older one asks.

  The woman nods.

  "We just came in."

  "From the rain," the younger girl adds. "We were in the parking lot and we were cold."

  "Do you remember how you got here?"

  Without looking at the woman, they shake their heads.

  Why can't they remember? Why can't I remember?

  The younger girl looks down to hide her tears, but they splash on the counter, one drop after another.

  "What were you doing before you found yourselves in the parking lot?" the woman asks.

  "There was a party," the younger girl says slowly. "And we danced and—"

  "No," her friend says. "That was the night before. This morning we walked to school together."

  Yes, that's what they did, I remember now. They walked to Eastern High School. Ellie and I were supposed to walk with them but we overslept.

  "Yes," the younger girl says, "that's right, and it was already hot and the sun was in my eyes."

  "But something happened." Her friend frowns. "Something horrible."

  I'm scared now, so scared so scared so scared I can barely breathe. I know why, I know everything, but I don't want to know.

  "It was dark all of a sudden," the younger girl says. "Dark like an eclipse."

  "Yes," her friend agrees, "that's just how it was. Then there was roaring all around us and I was reaching for you."

  "Me too, I was reaching for you b
ecause, because if we, if you and me ... I'd be alone in the dark."

  The woman reaches over and pats the girl's arm. The younger girl shivers as if the woman's hand is cold. "Were you in a car?" she asks the girls.

  "We could have been," the younger girl says. "We might have been. Maybe we got a ride."

  "No," her friend says, "we were in the park, we were walking across the ball field, we were laughing, you were swinging your purse and the sun was in our eyes and there was someone in the woods but we couldn't see who."

  I put my hands over my ears. I don't want to hear any more. I want to wake up.

  "And then we were running," the younger girl says. "Running and running and running."

  "Did we run all the way here?"

  "We must have."

  "No," the woman says, "you were running from something you couldn't escape. Don't you see? Don't you understand?"

  "Stop it," the man says to the woman. "Let them alone. You're making it worse."

  "Yes," another woman says. "You're scaring them, Stella."

  "I want to go home." The younger girl stands up and pulls her friend's arm. "I want my mother."

  "Poor baby," the woman says. She puts her arm around the girl. The girl pulls away, as if the woman's touch has chilled her bones.

  She tugs at her friend and begs her to come along, but her friend just sits there shaking her head. "For God's sake, don't you get it?"

  "These people are crazy," the younger girl shouts. "We have to get away from them."

  "Dumb kid," the waitress mutters.

  "Shut up!" the younger girl cries to the waitress. "You're the meanest, rudest person I've ever met. What's wrong with you?"

  The waitress shrugs, wipes her hands on her dirty apron, and goes back to scrubbing the counter.

  "Please, please," the girl begs her friend. "Don't just sit there, do something."

  "There's nothing to do," her friend says. "Nothing as in nothing. Zero as in zero. Zip as in zip."

  The younger girl runs to the door. Everyone watches her. Their sadness fills the diner. It's suffocating me. If only I could reach out, put my arms around her, comfort her.

  She looks outside. It's still dark, it's still raining. Puddles in the empty parking lot reflect the diner's neon sign. The traffic light swings in the wind, blinking red, staining the sky a dull pink. No other lights. No cars. Not a dog. Not a cat.

  Nothing as in nothing. Zero as in zero. Zip as in zip. Nada as in nada.

  Suddenly, I see what she sees. Not the empty parking lot, not the rain, but a different place, a place I know well. A path through the woods, a bridge just ahead. No one is sitting there.

  I hear what she hears. Gunshots. Bobbi Jo turns toward me and I see her face. She's scared, so scared. She runs, she runs, she runs, and I run with her, trying to pull her away, trying to save her, but she can't escape the bullets. And I can't save her, I can't change anything.

  She falls. Behind her, Cheryl lies broken, her full skirt streaked with blood. Dead. They are both dead. Nothing can change that.

  No, no, no, I try to scream, but I can barely whisper. No, no, no.

  Two boys come out of the woods. One has a rifle. They begin to drag the girls away. I don't recognize them, but I know that the one with the rifle is the boy they laughed at, he's the one, he did it, he shot them because they laughed at him.

  Then Bobbi Jo and I are in the diner again and Cheryl is sitting at the counter, her face as sad as the other faces.

  Bobbi Jo runs to Cheryl. She grabs her hands. She's crying. "What's going to happen to us?"

  No one answers. The woman with the cold hands and the kind face sighs. The man beside her mutters a cuss word under his breath. The waitress scowls and wipes the counter.

  I lie in my own bed, safe in my room but scared to move, breathing hard. A breeze rustles the leaves and shadows dance on my wall.

  This is the true dream, I think. Not the one both Ellie and I dreamed the night after they died. This dream is the truth.

  The boy they laughed at in the picnic grove. The one whose name I can't remember, whose face I can't remember. He did it, he killed them.

  Nothing as in nothing. Zero as in zero. Zip as in zip. Nada as in nada.

  I wish Buddy were here so I could tell him about my dream.

  Part Ten

  Winter

  Memories

  December 2006

  Nora

  I'M sitting at my desk reading my e-mail. Among the dozens of messages is one from Eastern High School. The class of 1957 is planning our fiftieth reunion.

  I stare at the screen. Fifty years—is that possible?

  I've been to only one reunion. The twentieth. Paul and Charlie didn't come. Ellie graduated from St. Joseph's, so she was absent too.

  The cheerleaders, the athletes, the class officers, and the popular kids sat together just like they used to. The rest of us were lucky if they spoke to us. I must confess, it was gratifying to see how much weight Ralph had gained and how much hair Don had lost. They both were married to cheerleaders in my class. Ralph to Sally, of course, and Don to Denise McCarthy. The girls looked like the boring housewives they'd become—overweight, hair in out-of-date beehives, too much makeup.

  I didn't talk to either Don or Ralph, but once I noticed Ralph looking at me across the room. As soon as our eyes met, we both looked away.

  In his opening remarks, our class president read the names of the dead. Not many then. After all, we were in our late thirties. He didn't mention Cheryl, maybe because she didn't graduate. That really bothered me. We'd been together in tenth and eleventh grade. He should have said something about her. Whether or not we knew her, we all remembered her. Of that I was certain.

  At dinner, I was sitting with Susan and Julie and Nancy and four or five other people. Just as I feared, someone mentioned the murders. All the other people at our table still believed Buddy did it. They asked me to tell them about the party in the picnic grove and what it was like to be there when the bodies were found and why Buddy wasn't ever convicted when it was obvious he did it. I remember thinking, people will never tire of talking about the murders. Never. Even those who barely knew the girls consider themselves part of the story. The legend. The ballad of.

  I gaze at the invitation on my computer screen and let my thoughts drift back to 1956, a long-ago day in June, the last day of school. I see us sitting on the footbridge in the park—Ellie, Charlie, Paul, and me. It's the day the bodies will be found by a boy walking his dog, but we know nothing about that yet. Ellie and and I wear full skirts puffed out with crinolines, Ship and Shore blouses, collars turned up in the back. We both swing our feet, white Keds with the little blue tags on the back to show they're the real thing, not Thom McAn imitations. Our bobby socks are thick-cuffed. Paul is next to Ellie, his arm around her, khaki pants pressed, plaid shirt, crewcut. Charlie's beside me, wearing pretty much the same outfit, his arm around me. We're smoking cigarettes and laughing. Summer stretches ahead—picnics, swimming pools, car rides, movies, parties. The four of us together, always together.

  But things happen. Things change. What you plan doesn't happen. What you don't plan almost kills you.

  After Ellie transferred to St. Joseph's, we saw each other a few times, but the murders were always there when we got together. They defined us somehow. We both wanted to stop thinking about them. The easiest way to do that was to drift apart.

  I haven't seen her for years now, but we still exchange Christmas cards. She lives in Missouri, she's married, has three sons, teaches high school chemistry. I still miss her.

  In our senior year, Charlie and I had a few classes together, Problems of Democracy and senior English. We joked and laughed, but we never kissed each other again. He stopped dedicating "Long Tall Sally" to me. I worried he might think I was cheap because of the things we did at the reservoir.

  In February he started going steady with Judy Spencer, who was short and cute. By the time we graduated, we were almos
t strangers. He signed my yearbook To Nora, keep drawing—see you at Towson! Your friend Charlie.

  I forget what I wrote in his yearbook, but I never saw him at Towson. It was a big campus. He majored in electrical engineering and I majored in fine art.

  Buddy wrote to me a few times, but after a while I stopped hearing from him. He never took me to the movies. As far as I know, he didn't come back to Elmgrove.

  I wonder what happened to him, where he is, what he's doing. It's a shock to realize he's almost seventy, a year or so ahead of me on the dark path. Retired, probably. Old like all of us who have lived this long.

  I've been to Greenwich Village many times now, but I still haven't watched the ball fall in Times Square, except on TV. Although I used to look for Larry when I was in the Village, I never saw him, but I have the copy of T. S. Eliot's poetry he gave me, and I often lose myself in Leaves of Grass. I still know Wordsworth's "A Slumber Did My Spirit Steal" by heart, as well as the words to lots of songs. Funny what you keep.

  I click WILL NOT ATTEND and shut down the computer.

  Then I gaze out my window at the trees blowing in the wind. It's late December. Twenty-three degrees, cold for Maryland.

  A few weeks later, I pick up the morning paper and stare at the headlines: POLICE HOPE TO CLOSE 1956 DOUBLE MURDER.

  Stunned, I set my coffee down and spread the paper out on the kitchen counter. A woman in Montana has called the police and told them her brother-in-law shot Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. He was sixteen at the time, she said. He lived on Twenty-Third Street, about a block from Ellie's house. He went to Eastern High School. So did his younger brother, the woman's husband.

  Just before he died, her brother-in-law told her he killed the girls because they made fun of him, especially the older one. He said the girl had a sharp tongue and mean eyes. He was never sorry he shot them. Never. Now that her husband was also dead, the woman had decided to inform the police.