by Leah Thomas
“This driveway is heinous.” Phil has reason to grumble—I called him at midnight and asked him to embark on this insane mission with me at the crack of dawn. When I sneaked out, the house was hushed apart from my footsteps and water dribbling on the windows.
“How long is this nightmare?” Phil asks as we bump into another puddle.
“No idea.” I try to swallow my heartbeat. “I’ve never been here before.”
Finally the driveway curves and we can see the end of it—a circular loop where cars and refuse have been cleared away to reveal a large garage and a bedraggled little house covered in chipped yellow paint.
Kalyn’s garage is bigger than her home.
“Do you think it happened here?” Phil says, cutting me with a worse thought. “The shooting? They never found out for sure.”
I don’t want to think about it, and that’s when the driveway defeats us—the Death Van pitches forward into another puddle, but this time it doesn’t come out the other side. For a minute Phil tries to fight the earth, letting the tires spin, cursing up a storm.
The revving of the engine terrifies me; it’s shattering the quiet, and anyone in that house is definitely awake. “Quit it, Phil.”
“As they say in films, ‘There’s no going back now.’ ” Phil switches off the ignition and climbs out of the van.
I have trouble getting out without sinking straight down into the muck, but I manage to soak only one shoe before joining Phil in front of the van. It’s a cold morning and I’m sniffling from yesterday’s rain, but that’s not what chills me. I’m looking at the mess in the lawn—an overturned grill, a half-buried fire pit, empty beer cans scattered about, broken lawn chairs. I don’t know that even Tam could do a lot for this yard.
I remember Kalyn’s face when she saw our garden. Icy shame impales me.
There isn’t a front step; only a cement block. I stop at the foot of it. I can’t sense any movement inside the house, and suddenly it hits me that maybe Dad did stand here, maybe he did die right here.
I look at the yearbook, willing myself to breathe, reminding myself why I’m here: if Dad stood right here, maybe Gary stood next to him, like Phil’s standing next to me.
We don’t know.
I pull the screen open and tap on the door.
“Come now,” Phil scoffs, and knocks five times, much harder.
I expect a pause; I expect eyes to appear between the plastic blinds of a window, but the door opens immediately. Kalyn appears in a waft of smoke and roses. She’s wearing a holey Led Zeppelin hoodie and floral-print pajama bottoms. Her hair is a stormy nest atop her head, and she clutches a fresh egg in her upraised, bandaged fist.
“It’s you,” she says after a second, lowering her weapon.
I smile, just a little. Kalyn’s posture relaxes a hair.
“The hell are you doing here?”
“Playing hooky,” I say.
“Twice in one week?” Kalyn scowls. “They’ll set the po-po on you.”
But thinking of police doesn’t make any of us feel better. “So have you been watching the news? Apparently Dad’s guilty no matter what, at least in public opinion.”
“The public opinion isn’t my opinion. Can we please talk?”
Her cheeks flush. “Yeah, whatever. It’s just me and Grandma right now.”
The trailer smells warm and smoky, this mixture of cigarettes and perfume that’s not the best for my asthma. The wallpaper inside is peeling, and we’re standing in a cramped kitchen attached to a living room. Mostly everything is brownish, but the card table in the center of the room is battered and pine green. A frail old woman sits in a wheelchair alongside it, poking at a piece of toast with one hooked finger.
“Grandma,” Kalyn says, “these are some friends from school.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say; Phil’s too busy peering at every corner to say a thing.
Grandma Spence is staring right through me, her mouth a tight line. I know she had a stroke, but I also know that having a hard time talking doesn’t mean she isn’t thinking all kinds of things. I start coughing.
“Sorry,” I wheeze.
Kalyn’s cheeks redden. “Oh, damn, right. We can talk outside; just give me a second to get Grandma settled.”
Minutes later Grandma Spence is on the sofa with her eyes locked on the Food Network, and we’re sitting at a picnic table out front. I didn’t mention how cold my fingers are, but Kalyn brought out a cardboard box of mittens, hats, and scarves.
“Take your pick.” I put on an orange beanie and camouflage mittens. Kalyn snorts. “Bet no one in your family’s ever worn camo before.”
“I’m not so sure.” I set the yearbook on the table between us. “Kalyn. Last night. I found something.” I flip it open to the back page and tap on it.
“That’s Dad’s handwriting,” she says without even reading the words.
“I thought so,” I breathe.
“This is James Ellis’s—your dad’s yearbook? Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Holy shit. Does this mean our dads were friends? A Spence and an Ellis?”
“Suppose it’s another thing that runs in the family.” Phil shrugs.
Kalyn and I only look at each other.
“But . . . I mean, that changes things.”
“I know.”
Phil leans forward. “It’s got the appeal of a classic mystery. Friends from different social strata, forced to vie against each other. With the addition of a modern, disturbing twist, of course.”
“My dad being crammed in the trunk of a Ford, you mean.”
“Precisely,” Phil says. “Yes.”
Kalyn punches him on the shoulder. “Callous much?”
“Yeah, but . . . I mean.” Being sensitive won’t actually help anything. Kalyn and Phil and me, we might help something.
“So what, Gus?” She holds up her hands. “So what does this mean? You know, once, only once, I told Dad I thought he was a good person. He was not a fan. You’d think I was slapping him. I used to think it was ’cause he couldn’t see himself that way, but now I’m looking at everything we’re seeing now . . .”
“He ‘doth protest too much.’ ” Phil nods.
“What if my dad really didn’t kill yours?” She tugs at her hair. “But if he lied about that, the single damnedest reality of our lives, what else has he lied about?”
“That’s not relevant,” Phil says bluntly.
Kalyn’s seething. “What?”
“I mean, certainly it’s relevant to your relationship with your father. But the issue at hand is whether an innocent man should be in prison, and whether there’s someone out there that should be there in his stead.”
I shake my head. “Phil. You’re not wrong, but sometimes you’re so wrong.”
But Kalyn closes her mouth, wiping at her eyes. “Fine. You want to play Scooby-Doo? Let’s do it. Fuck it. And you know what? I found a clue, too.”
She pulls a stack of photographs from the pocket of her hoodie and slaps them on the table. “Caught Grandma blanking out faces in old photos. She wouldn’t tell me why, but someone’s getting erased.”
I stare at the pictures, all these nineties Polaroids and ash-stained Kodak moments.
“Is it all the same person?” Phil asks.
“I think so. But I don’t know who he is. There are a lot of Spences I never met.”
“It’s the same person,” I say, staring at the Adam’s apples, the size ratio between Gary Spence and this faceless soul he’s thrown his arm around in a dozen photos.
“Think he could be the actual murderer? Why would Dad take the fall for him?”
“Did your father have siblings, Kalyn?”
I’m staring at the pictures, piecing together the posture and the joy on Gary Spence’s face. These two at a bonfire, these two kicking it in the back of a pickup truck, Gary and the faceless other. I’ve never thought of Gary Spence as a kid before.
“Dad had aroun
d five siblings, I think? But he was the youngest by, like, ten years. The next youngest was Uncle Greg, and he was working on an oil rig in Alaska around then. Not all Spences get stuck in Shitsboro.” She shakes her head. “Man, have I got questions for Dad. He had better fucking call tonight.”
“It’s like—like.” I sigh. “You hate your dad more now that he isn’t a murderer.”
“Well, isn’t lying a little like murder, too, Gus?”
“No. It’s really not.” I set the photos down. “The guy in these photos can’t be the murderer.”
“How the hell do you know?” she says, standing up.
“Because the guy in these photos is my dad.”
All this evidence of a friendship that no one ever thought was worth mentioning, all these photos of Gary Spence and my dad being best friends. Deleting Dad’s face doesn’t mean I couldn’t recognize his posture, his height, his stance anywhere. I’ve spent a lifetime studying him, and I’ve never seen any of these photos.
“Ah,” says Phil. “That’s an alibi indeed.”
“It doesn’t help us,” I spit. “It just makes everything feel worse.”
Kalyn reaches out—I think she’s reaching for the photos, but she takes my hand instead. “Look at me, Gus.”
I lift my eyes. I recognize the expression in hers, the confusion and anger and betrayal and sadness. “Say our dads were good friends. It helps me to know that, in some type of way. Because I tell you what, I have a half-Ellis for a friend, and there’s no way in hell I could ever kill you. You know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Kalyn,” Phil inquires, “if this evidence isn’t pertinent to uncovering a new suspect, can you tell us what is? What DNA evidence has allowed the case to reopen?”
“My mom found a bloodstained jacket in the shed,” Kalyn tells us, “and it proved that Dad was facing the other way when the gun went off. Like, he couldn’t have shot it.”
“The jacket was found in this shed?” Phil asks, pointing at the boxy little shack between the house and garage.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
I wipe my eyes on my hand. “Did she find anything else in there?”
Kalyn’s raising her eyebrows. “Y’all wanna pillage a shed, or what?”
KALYN
I COULD’VE CRIED when Gus appeared on my doorstep this morning.
Spending the morning tearing apart an old shed is less than awesome, but it beats school. At least I don’t have to play nice after throwing pizza at my only fake friends yesterday. At least I don’t have to see Sarah’s disappointment or tell her the truth. Instead I get to see Gus’s lovely face.
Now I’m confronted with busted old furniture being dragged into sunlight, the vision of Phil batting at cobwebs and Gus coughing on dust bunnies as we pull things from darkness. I can see the area Mom started clearing out, and we start there, because that’s gotta be where the jacket was found.
I don’t know what we’re actually looking for. We’re not going to find answers here, except Mom did, so at least this feels productive. It’s at least a distraction.
Helping Gus move a tote of snow pants out of the musty darkness, I say, “You know, it’s gonna be harder for us to meet up at school.”
“Why?” Gus gasps as we plop the box down. He’s wiping dirt from his glasses. God, his eyes are huge without those lenses, these deep orbs of gray that might woo the shit out of me if I were otherwise inclined. “Nobody knows who you are.”
“They’re bound to find out.”
I have no idea why he’s frowning at me.
“You sound like me,” he says, “but before I met you.”
I don’t know how the hell to respond—I mean, wasn’t Gus better off before he met me?—so maybe it’s real lucky that Phil emerges from the shed, holding a pair of crutches and a filthy old comforter. “Kalyn, I haven’t asked the obvious—could your grandmother have murdered Gus’s dad?”
“Wonder what it’s like to have a normal conversation,” Gus says, wincing.
“Gus. I am not going to discount her merely because she’s elderly and disabled, am I? That would be shortsighted and discriminatory.”
Gus groans, but his cheeks flush as if he’s pleased. He and Phil have a funny thing going, but it’s some kind of actual understanding thing.
“Best not to discount Grandma in most things,” I say, “because she’ll kick your ass for it. But Grandma had an alibi. She was actually at the football game, working concessions with like a half-dozen church ladies.”
Phil looks real disappointed, and I’m not sure whether to be offended. I have very confused thoughts about what constitutes a badass. Sure, murder ain’t cool, but Grandma can hold her own in a tussle. I’m glad others can smell that on her.
After a few hours of sunshine that eats up a little of the puddles, the lawn surrounding the shed is a museum of someone else’s memories. There’s some genuinely nice, heavy furniture in the shed that we don’t touch, and a dead snowmobile that should probably be parked elsewhere. Other than that, we’ve cleared things out pretty good. Most of the boxes are full of dusty old clothes, things belonging to bygone Spences. There are forgotten skis and junky Budweiser mirrors, dirty plates and ugly puppy statuettes, and the usual pile of car parts and crusty rags.
“Whole lotta crap,” I say.
“No, it’s not,” Gus says awkwardly.
“Dear Rich Boy, I’m allowed to call my own crap ‘crap.’ Sincerely, Me.”
That shuts him up pretty quick.
“What became of the murder weapon?” Phil asks, oblivious to the moment. “Locked in an evidence locker, I presume?”
“I guess so. It was Grandma’s gun, technically.”
Phil scratches his chin. “As your grandmother is not a murderess and her gun is elsewhere, presumably, I think I will journey into her midst and use the restroom.”
“Check that she’s breathing.” I try to make it sound like a joke, but I have no idea when Mom came in last night, and she’d left again before I crawled out of bed.
Gus slumps atop a box, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. Sweat has left lines in the dirt around his face. He looks four times as tired as I feel.
“I thought we might find more photos of them.” I get why he’s disappointed—if Grandma blocked out all the faces of his father, maybe we’ll never see real proof of the two of them spending time together. But that reminds me—
“Gus, there’s a picture that was in the papers years back. Our dads were in the same shop class, and the class posed in front of a gazebo downtown. It’s not exactly proof of friendship, but have you ever seen that?”
“No. I don’t think so. Mom might have a copy of it, back home in the office.”
“We should check out your place next.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Gus looks beyond uneasy. “I mean, for photos.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t invite myself over.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he says. “But lately Mom’s . . . not okay.”
“Your mom ever talk about my dad?” I ask, trying not to sound angry.
He blinks. “No. She didn’t know him.”
“She must have known him, right? If he and Gary were friends in high school. Funny if she never mentioned that, considering she was dating James and all.”
I don’t say it, not directly. I don’t need to. A crease forms between his eyebrows.
“I bet no one knew they were friends,” he reasons. “I bet they kept it a secret.”
“What, like we do?”
Gus shakes his head. “Not like us. We’re different.”
But now my heart is pounding, and I can’t believe we’re sitting out here in the cold sun together, as if this can actually work. I don’t want to hear Gus say we could be different from our parents. I want him to say that his parents could be the same as mine, in fact, that guilt doesn’t belong only to the poor and trashy. I want Gus to consider, for one second, what I’ve always had to ac
cept: “Who says your mom’s not a murderer, Gus? Might have to ask her some questions. I don’t think my dad’s the only liar.”
He’s glaring at me, but how is that fair? “What? Don’t like the shoe on the other foot? Easy to say anyone in my family is a murderer, but better not imply the same thing about yours, huh?”
“Because it’s r-ridiculous!”
“Why? Because your family is so wholesome? Because your family wouldn’t even want to be seen with mine, and everyone knows that?”
“It’s not like—not that!” Gus sputters, fists clenched, climbing to his feet.
“Oh, really? You walked into my house today and felt bad for me. So what’s it really like, Gus? How come you don’t want me to come over?”
“Because—it’s just—”
“How come we don’t hang out at school, huh? Really, Gus?”
“Because you—you’re too cool for me!” he blurts.
I’m left gobsmacked. “What?”
Gus’s eyes are shining. “Because you are too cool to be seen with me. You say that Rose wouldn’t mind, but I’m not exactly good for your image either, am I?”
“G-Gus,” I stammer, “do—do you really think that?”
His expression makes my chest hurt. Gus has lived his whole life thinking people tolerate him. But I can’t believe he still thinks that about me. And despite it all, I’m up and wrapping my arms around his stiff shoulders.
“Gus,” I say, “I deserve more fucking credit than that. Maybe my family doesn’t, fine. But I’m your fucking friend, you got that? You’ve gotta get out of your head.”
I pull back. His expression crumbles. “Yeah. I know that . . . and maybe you’re right. I can’t think of my family like I think of yours. As the . . . bad guys.”
“Yeah, well.” I smirk. “It gets easier with practice.”
“Ahem?” Something about the way Phil crops up like some wayward gopher lessens the tension. “Both of you are neglecting the idea that it could have been a complete outsider who committed this crime. Another classmate, a drifter, a stranger, unlikely though it seems.”