Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children

by Lee Thompson

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “You used to play with Ethan all the time. I know he’s not your son, but I don’t know why your attitude changed. And you—”

  “My attitude didn’t change. I still love him, and I still love you.” I had the ring out of my pocket before I had time to think it through. “I got this for you.”

  Cat pursed her lips. Her eyes lit up and then cooled. “You bought that to make me feel better?”

  What the hell is wrong with you?

  “No. I bought it because I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  “I’m stressed.”

  “But you still don’t talk about what’s causing it.”

  I tucked the ring back in my pocket. Her gaze sank to the lawn. The edge of her mouth quivered. “I know what your sister thinks. Probably other people, too.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I tried to put my arm over her shoulder, because seeing her hurting tore my heart up, but she shrugged it off. “What’s your deal? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

  “It’s not just you.”

  “Not just me, what?”

  “Who’s holding back. I know I’m to blame as well.”

  I pulled her head into my shoulder, not sure how to get past this gap she’d pointed out. It wasn’t all physical; it ran down into our psyches and that was what made it so damn hard. “I love you.”

  Her voice tickled my shoulder, came out muffled, “I love you too. I don’t like the coldness in the house. I don’t want to think that we’re growing apart.”

  I remembered someone telling me that the one year mark had its trials. And living together the past few months had its ups and downs. “It’s all normal, honey. We’ll move past it.”

  “And what about the stuff that’s bothering you?”

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  “I hope so.”

  I kissed the top of her head, her hair tickling my nose. “I’ll talk to you when I get home tonight. Maybe we can watch a movie and cuddle or something.”

  She pulled back. “How late is Pat going to make you work?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just kinda winging it right now.”

  “He’s not training you?”

  “I don’t know if you’d call it training.”

  “Why’d you have to go in so early this morning?” She squeezed my hand.

  “I’ll tell you about it tonight, okay?”

  “Sure.” She hugged me. “Tell me how you got the bump too?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got time, though, right?”

  “Yeah.” I stroked her cheek, put my arm around her waist, and we walked back to the Emergency Room entrance. “Have you seen Rusty?”

  Cat nodded. “He walked out. He should have spent the night. Men.”

  I laughed, but I didn’t like that he’d left. “Wonder why he didn’t stay.”

  “I don’t know. He was bruised up and had a few cuts. It was his choice to leave. We can’t stop them.”

  I nodded and looked out over the road and at the mountains flowing around the valley. “I should go in and see Mike’s mom.”

  Cat perked up, like flipping a light switch. “He was here earlier. Maybe two hours ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend. I took him to Mrs. Johnston’s room, but she was in one of her cranky moods, so Michael just walked out. He looked tired.”

  “He’s in town? Did he say how long he’s been here?”

  “No. You should call him.”

  I didn’t have his number anymore because the crappy Nextel I’d had back then went to cell phone heaven. Hadn’t talked to him in almost five years, and never realized until that moment how much time had passed. I slapped her bottom, tore a smile from her. “I’m sure I’ll run across him.”

  She kissed me and held my hand for a moment. “Do you want to see her? I’ll take you in there. I have to go back to work anyway.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’d rather Mike got to see her first. I’m going to try and find Wylie. There’s something I need to ask him.”

  “Okay.” Her lips brushed the corner of my mouth. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “So, we’ll have a movie date tonight?”

  I wanted to say, If nothing comes up, but I didn’t want to worry her or answer anymore questions, so I nodded.

  * * *

  Mike grunted as he walked around the Estate. Trees needed pruning, flowerbeds weeded, and the hedges looked like Einstein’s wacky hair. He peeled off his shirt and got to work. It felt good, just moving, seeing something untended take shape and look acceptable again. The time he’d spent overseas had taught him a lot about getting the job done. He didn’t miss carrying a rifle and sidearm, just the sensation that he’d done something to restore the balance, while it might have tipped further without him and his teams’ intervention. The acting had taken its place though and he was grateful for it even though he found the scripts ridiculous. He never talked to anyone about what happened in the desert during the war. It was easier to try and let it go.

  Being back felt weird. The Manor leaned toward him; stone gryphons guarded the thirteen steps that led to dark double doors, an imp crossing itself at each corner parapet, facing north-east, north-west, south-east, south-west. He caught glimpses of the gryphons shifting their stance on their totems as he knelt in the flower bed next to the front steps and pulled weeds. Mike stood, moved around to the back of the pool where a flower bed stood full of dying daisies. He stared at the windows on the third floor, waiting for something ghastly to shift behind the glass, an image of his sister embracing her pain, calling: Look for me. Why did you give up?

  Back out front, he moved up the steps, tried the front double doors. The right panel creaked inward, pulled open by its own weight. Long imprisoned murk pressed against his face. Dust motes flew up as he crossed the threshold. He sneezed and covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow. The stairs—guarded by a knight wearing a cloak of weaved red, white trim, a snake eating its own tail upon his chest—ran up to the second floor along the right wall, white marble black with mold, the foyer big enough to fit most people’s houses in. The once highly polished mahogany banister had dulled and cobwebs shrouded the chandelier. It reminded Mike of people, how you could coast along and before you knew it your glory had passed you by and everything lay in ruin. It saddened him to see things decay.

  In the living room, the piano brought back memories of a childhood pushed toward greatness. How his mother wanted him to be special and his father had pulled him toward architecture and his teenage sister, before she’d gone missing, had told him, “Fuck that. Follow your heart.”

  And I did. But look what it’s cost me.

  Mike opened the piano lid and let his fingers glide over the ivory. He played a piece by Bach. The room reverberated with the sound of thunder. It came back in a flood. Mike felt like weeping.

  So many ways I’ve let them down by leaving, by trying to find myself.

  The picture window by the Steinway looked south, down over the drive, over All Saints and Division beyond. The town hadn’t changed much in ten years. Just looked more seedy, its people more rundown. It irked him when people lacked passion for something. And at the same time caused him pain, because he didn’t know how they could go on living like zombies.

  He went out to the Jag and grabbed his Mac from the back seat. Inside, he cleared the top of the mammoth desk and booted the computer. Feeling blocked lately, he stared at the screen. Mike didn’t know if a person could live their high points for a few brief years and then slide down the hill that represented the rest of their life in a speckled ruin of lifeless flesh. No insight. No drive. No happiness.

  The idea scared him.

  He closed the laptop and leaned back in the chair, feeling overwhelmed. A girl knocked on the living room’s ope
n doorway. Red hair flowed over her shoulders. She had the body of a nineteen-year-old volleyball player. Her outfit looked like a Catholic girl’s uniform. A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Nice place.”

  “You just walk into people’s homes?”

  “Your mom hired me.”

  “For?”

  She ran a finger down the doorjamb. “What do you think?”

  “To clean? I can handle it.”

  “She doesn’t think you’re going to stick around.”

  Mike pushed the chair away from the desk, noticed the girl wore a silver bracelet that glinted in the overhead light. “Well, if she wants you here, whatever. I’m going to go back to work in the yard.”

  “Shirtless?”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No. I like it. You and your friend look kinda like brothers.”

  “What friend?”

  “Johnathan.”

  “Why would you talk to John?” He met her half way across the room as she spun in a circle like Mary Poppins. He grabbed her elbow. “Answer me.”

  She laughed. “It’s funny. He’s got the name of a saint and you the name of the Archangel. They fit both of you. If you knew the real history behind them.”

  “Are you planning on staying here?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. It’s my mother’s house.”

  “Till she dies.” She jerked away from him and sat at the piano. Mike looked at the door, then stepped into the hall.

  “Where’s your car? Your luggage?”

  “You like annoying people with questions.” She played the same Bach piece he’d played earlier. Only better. The girl smiled at him, tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

  Mike walked outside, letting the music wash over him, a little jealous, but if she played like that every day he thought it might help him get back into the groove of finding out what happened to his sister before their mother died. It’d been on hold long enough.

  You best get used to having company. That girl isn’t going anywhere.

  As he circled the house, he realized he hadn’t asked her name.

  Plenty of time for that later. And it’s not like it matters. She’s trouble. I can smell it on her.

  Chapter 9

  Wylie woke to Tiff propped on her elbow, staring at him. His mind rambled over the day they’d hit it off, after Pat had hired him to take down a tree out in front of the house a year ago, this winding maple that ran its hands over the power lines out by the road. He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  She got out of bed and he licked his lips, staring at the sheer ivory of her naked body as she walked to the window and looked out over Jackson Street. He’d never expected this, being attracted to a woman a decade older than him. “It’s almost six.”

  He jumped up and grabbed his Levi’s from the floor, pulled them on. Looking at the closed door, he faced an image of Pat on the other side, gun in hand, all his rage about to spill forth. Wylie shivered and threw some of the clothes piled on the floor to the side, looking for his shirt. “He’ll be home anytime.”

  Tiff leaned her elbows against the window’s trim and pressed her forehead to the glass. Her sigh came out long and wispy. “What would you say if—”

  Her voice trailed off as he found his shirt and pulled it on. His head swam with the guilt he’d been trying to hold at bay for the last couple weeks. Her daughter Morgan said something in her room and Wylie stilled. Tiff opened the window. She turned and ran a hand over her stomach. “I don’t know if I can keep on doing this.”

  Wylie turned, heart in his throat. He swallowed. “Are you saying you want to end it?”

  “I don’t know what I want anymore. Just to be loved and not judged.” Her chin dropped and she glared at the messy floor, clothes—clean and dirty, books, drawings that showed a knack for it, but none of them finished. “My whole life is in ruins. More every day.”

  He crossed the room and looked out the window. Pat’s old cruiser went north up Slattery, slow, toward 82. Wylie turned to Tiff. “You want him to find me here. For what? So we can kill each other?” He knew that a short jog through the woods, across the highway and onto the other side of Slattery and he could be home, watching someone else ruin their life on TV. But he couldn’t move. Not yet. He wanted to hear her say it, whatever consumed her. She shook her head and a breeze sent wisps of her hair across his face. He leaned into her and the tone of his voice irritated him. “I’m not into games. I thought you loved me.”

  “I do. I think…”

  “Well, you better do more than think.”

  Her nipples grew hard and he wanted to play with them, wanted to ask her, This get you off, all the tension you’re creating?

  He touched her chin, leveled her face to look him in the eye. “What’s the truth, Tiff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s bullshit. Do you love him? Or do you love me?”

  “I don’t know.” She whimpered and rested her head against his fingers. Wylie pulled away and paced the bedroom, taking in all the things he’d always wanted in his own life, seeing past the cracks, realizing this was another man’s life he’d been living. A fairy tale headed toward disaster. His nose ran. He wiped it. “You need to figure out what you want.”

  “I want you.” She set her hands on his shoulders and kissed below his ear. Wylie shivered and leaned his forehead against hers. Tiff’s breath tickled his chest. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her voice came out choked, and she squinted against private pain he wished he could peel away like dead skin. “Like I cheat on Pat with you. Don’t you worry that even if we were together I’d do the same thing to you eventually? How can you trust me?”

  Good question. I don’t have an honest answer.

  Wylie ran his hand through his hair, wondering how much time they had before Pat turned around, came home, pulled in the drive and all hell broke loose.

  “Do you want me to stay and end this tonight? Is that going to make you happy?”

  “I don’t know what would.”

  “If you don’t, I don’t either.” He wiped her tears away, rougher than he intended. Tiff flinched. “You need to cut back on your drinking. At least if you want to keep me.”

  She shook her head again and sniffled. “That’s so easy for you, but it’s not for me.”

  “Easy or not, it’s not helping you. Or me.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. I’m sick of being judged. Why can’t people just accept other people and their flaws?”

  “I’m not judging you. And there’s a difference between a flaw and something that only pushes you closer to the edge. You keep slipping further—”

  “You better leave.”

  “You know what you want now?”

  “At this moment, I want you to leave.”

  Wylie shook his head. His hand came up, of its own violation, or an inner need to renew the connection they’d had only hours ago, but she slapped it down.

  “Get out before Pat gets home.”

  “Are you trying to hurt me now, by reminding me that I’m just the guy on the side?”

  Her face tensed and teeth flashed. “Is that how you think of yourself? Just the guy on the side?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Leave, Wylie.”

  “Sure. I’ll talk to you.” He opened the door and peeked into the hall. Morgan’s door was shut. He frowned.

  That poor kid.

  At the sliding door in the kitchen, he stepped outside and slid on his work boots. He tried to ease the tension building around the walls of his heart and shook his hands until his knotted fists relaxed.

  Wylie stepped into the woods, dusk pressing against the trees.

  Chapter 10

  Cat crossed her arms and leaned her head against the bedroom wall. I waited for the voice I loved to break my heart, saying, It�
��s over, I can’t handle the quiet, the storm swirling inside, the poison waters drowning our relationship.

  It brought me back to the river, which sucked, because I’d pushed it out of my mind for a while at least, and I couldn’t help but question if thinking about the dead girls was only a way to distract myself from what I’d done to Mark.

  She uncrossed her arms and sat on the bed. “I thought you were going to talk to me.”

  I pulled on my boots, nearly in a fever with excitement.

  I don’t know why I didn’t check the Wright Mill out before.

  “John. Are you even listening to me?”

  “I heard you, but I have to go out for a bit.”

  “You just got home.”

  I nodded and pulled my hunting jacket from the closet. The Remington 870 leaned in the corner. I picked it up and slipped a box of slugs into my coat pocket.

  “Where are you going with a gun? Can you at least tell me that?”

  If I tell you that it leads to the girls in the woods. And you have enough shit on your mind already, honey.

  I rested the shotgun in the crook of my elbow and cleared my throat. “I’m going to tell you everything when I know more of what the hell is going on. Right now I’m only speculating.”

  “But what’s it about? You’re scaring me.”

  I leaned the gun against the bed and sat next to her. I put my hand over hers and stroked the tender flesh on her wrist. Cat wiped her nose. “If you really love me, tell me what’s happened. What gave you the bump on your head? Why do you seem so withdrawn? I can’t help if you don’t say what it is. Show me you love me. That you trust me.”

  If another girl had said it, I’d have thought it a manipulation tactic. But Cat always shot straight. She always strived for communication. I opened my mouth and that morning’s events, the morning I woke among the dead, gushed out.

  She looked out the window over our bed and said, “Why would they hide it? How did Mark’s key get inside one of the girls? I saw it, too. It was buried with him.”

  “I know. They think he killed them before he died.”

  And from the way Pat acted, they might think that I had something to do with it as well. Like maybe I had helped him or knew about it and just slept walked out there or some crazy shit.