by Austin,Robin
She doesn’t answer.
I’m about to write an article that says Eunice is living a happy and peaceful life here. That you are too. Living your life at Ashland safe and serene. Is that the story you want?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“Then tell me. Tell me the truth.”
“If only it were that simple. It is not.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, walking back to face her. “Did you take Ruby to Paris or Rome? Did you see a baby on a television show named Ruby? Did someone give Eunice a doll? Did Dr. Kaufman rape you?”
Matilda stands, throws one end of the scarf over her shoulder, and strolls across the room. Her half smile has relaxed. “Dr. Kaufman was a scholar. A brilliant man, a mad scientist.”
“And a rapist. Did he impregnate Eunice?”
Matilda has her back to me, dancing to a tune only she can hear.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do. Only you can tell me or tell Eunice it’s okay to talk to me.”
Silence.
“Matilda, I have no choice but to write the article my client wants, that Dr. Rodham and the Board want. That doesn’t mean Eunice’s story can’t be written too. It doesn’t mean that the truth can’t be told, that something can’t be done to help Eunice and others. But first, you have to stop making up wild tales, stop the lies and half truths.”
Matilda laughs. “Sounds like we all make up stories. Stories are just something we tell to pass the time. Entertain us so we don’t get bored. Eunice has her wall. She doesn’t care about your silly story. It’s not what she wants or needs.”
“Then tell me what she needs, and I’ll do everything I can do to help her.”
Matilda has her back to me again. Her body still hears the silent music.
“Matilda?”
“You came for yourself. We know you are not here for us.”
She’s humming a tune I can’t recall. My head is throbbing to the beat. “I can try.”
Silence. I wait then turn to leave.
“We need you to find Ruby, and give her a proper burial so she can finally rest.”
I jump at a loud knock. Somehow Eunice has moved to lay with her head pressed to the headboard in the same painful position as before.
The door opens and a nurse pops her head in. “Visiting hours are over for the day.”
“Can I have just five more minutes?” She gives me a strained look. “Please. Just to say goodbye. I’m not sure I’ll be back to see her again.”
The nurse nods and raises her hand. “Five minutes. I don’t want to have to come back down here.”
“I promise,” I say, and she closes the door.
“How can I find Ruby? Where do I even look? I don’t know where to start. Matilda, please. Talk to me. Who was Ruby’s father? Dr. Kaufman? Pastor Davenport? Where is she?”
I wait and wait and when I see the shadow lying next to Eunice, I turn and walk out the door.
Chapter Nineteen
§
I rush down the corridor, furious. Never should I have come back to Ashland. There’s nothing for me here but the reminder of my triumphant failure as a journalist. The only thing that’s changed is the type of mistakes I’m making.
The young woman at the desk still works on her fingernails, her eyes roll before she presses the buzzer to let me out of the building.
On the road, a slow moving truck pulls in front of me and I reach for the horn. Instead of blasting the driver, I pull over and scream so loud my throat hurts, then I take a pill for my throbbing head.
Years ago, I put on a brave face for my editor, for Jimmy Paine, my co-workers, and my father. But not for Rick. I came home after the trial and promptly fell apart. It wasn’t just blowing the assignment or being humiliated by Paine. It wasn’t even the shadows that followed me around Ashland. It was everything and I spared him no details. The four years in LA, my head injury, the loss of a childhood dream, the life that was supposed to be picture perfect for us but didn’t come close. Still, the worst was yet to come.
Rick didn’t know what to do for me or with me. Things hadn’t gone his way either and I’m certain the weekend I came back from Ashland, he saw they never would go our way. He wanted the doctors to fix me. The shadows I spoke of didn’t scare him, they made him angry.
I’m sure I once knew Rick. Back in high school and college. I tried so hard to remember who he really was, and who we once were together. He tried to make it work too– until I came back from Ashland.
Shortly after I returned, I noticed little things that only grew larger. Late nights at the office, weekends at work, business trips, the lilac and jasmine and oppressive musk that lingered on his skin. Still, he stayed and stays with me. He came back to Stratton because my father asked him to. I wonder if he stays for the same reason. I wonder if that’s my reason too.
I’m not okay sitting in my car in the dark on the side of the road in a small rural town all by myself. Rodham insists Matilda doesn’t have a grasp on reality; I fear I don’t either. He says she’s play acting a fictional life. Nature’s medicine for stress relief, he called it. There’s a Matilda inside of me, play acting a fictional and medicated life.
Someone with a psychology degree should be able to figure this out. I can’t. Matilda’s gotten into my head and found my weakest synapse, my rawest wound, and my deepest secret. Lies told to live a happy and fulfilled life describe us both. Not quite, but I’ve gotten close enough to crazy to believe so.
There really is a dead child and shadows. One little shadow waited patiently for me to return to Ashland. Waiting still for me to pay heed just like that damn turban wearing fortune teller said.
I check the rearview mirror and pull onto the empty road that leads back to the hotel.
Early the next morning, I have a call from my mother. I get that same dry mouth, that same ping in my stomach before I answer.
“Did you talk to Rick?”
“Good morning to you too, Mother. It’s six thirty. How’s Dad?”
“It six thirty five and so what? It’s morning, get moving. Your father is fine. Stop worrying about my husband and worry about your own.”
“Exactly what should I be worrying about? Did something happen?”
“For crying out loud, Jan. If you have to ask, you need more help than I can give you.”
“On that last point, I agree.”
My mother’s so quiet, I think she’s hung up. When she speaks, she sounds so sad. “Jan, come home today. Spend the weekend with Rick.”
“I’ll be home by Monday. I need a day or two to finish up. I have a treasure hunt scheduled after I sleep another hour or so.”
“It’s morning. Why do you need to sleep? Treasure hunt? What’s going on in Ruston? What nonsense are you talking about?”
“Client confidentiality, Mother. I’ll talk to you soon.”
It’s past ten when I step out of the shower. After I said goodbye to my mother and before I fell back asleep, I left Rick a message telling him I had a great lead and how excited I was that the story was coming together so well. Ha, hah, happy face. I did it knowing he probably wasn’t home and would be relieved I didn’t know otherwise. I did it for my mother more than I did it for him.
After an internet search for the phone number of the Methodist Church in Alabaster, Alabama, and another search for registered sex offenders and Ira Kaufman, I scribbled the addresses of all the cemeteries in a hundred mile radius in my notebook. But not before sitting with my mouth hung open for a couple of minutes staring at my computer screen.
Not only did I find what I hope is the current address for Ira Kaufman just two towns over, I found his website and the titles of his four romance novels. Under absolutely any circumstance, that’s just creepy.
There’s no phone listing for Kaufman so I plan, without a rational thought left in my head, to drive the four hours it will take me to land on his doorstep.
I stop at a convenience store in Ruston and buy a
n armful of junk food and a supersize coffee. Then I try to reach the current pastor in Alabaster, and I’m told to call back on Sunday afternoon.
I figure if anyone can tell me where I can find baby Ruby, now that I’ve accepted there once was a baby, it’s Kaufman. That premise is illogical, but it doesn’t matter. I’m beyond reason and have to do this, I have to try. I can’t leave Ashland and that little shadow wandering around, wondering why I didn’t.
There are three cemeteries between Ruston and Kaufman’s home in Baxter. I plan to stop at each on the way, and if necessary, take a detour eastward before looping through Ruston to cover the ones on the west side of the state. Altogether, there are nine to visit. This isn’t a good plan, it’s a preposterous mission.
I’ve no brilliant idea of how I will find a child named by an alter personality. One assumed born sometime between 1979 when Kaufman and Davenport came to Ruston, and 1982 when Kaufman was arrested and Child Protection Services swooped down on Ashland and deemed it safe once again. Good luck, I tell myself as I pull onto the highway with my coffee cup in the dashboard holder and a chocolate cupcake in my mouth.
My hope is that Kaufman will tell me what really happened or convince me he’s clueless when it comes to Eunice’s child. If the latter, I still have Davenport’s life to dissect and dismantle.
First stop is the Ruston Cemetery, where I already paid the Cohoon family a visit. This is the most logical place to have buried Ruby, and that’s why I don’t expect to find her here. The guilty usually don’t place headstones just miles from their crimes, but only a rookie reporter wouldn’t check.
Ruston has a part-time caretaker and today is not part of that time. The grounds are small and well maintained. Still, even with coffee and sugar pumping my heart and jogging shoes on my feet, it takes me almost an hour to eliminate Ruston. At this rate, I’ll get to Kaufman’s in time for dinner.
So if none of this is going in your article or helping you to write it, what are you doing on this barren highway?
These are my father’s words I hear, if only I could pick up the phone and talk to him.
Rape and a possible murder aren’t part of a convincing argument for institutionalization. Stick to the guidelines or you’ll miss your deadline, kiddo.
I turn on the radio to drown out his voice. “This isn’t just about Ruby. The truth is, I want to meet Kaufman, the serial rapist, the former prison inmate, the romance writer. A man who molested at least five women but never married, not back then, and according to his online breadcrumbs, not since his release.”
You sure about wanting to meet this maniac? Not trying to fool yourself are you?
“Yes and I don’t think so. But listen, he may know exactly how Matilda came to be. He may have taught her everything she knows. I’ve looked everywhere else for the answers. How can I risk not asking the one person who may know? I should have ignored Palmer and Rodham and started my research with Ira Kaufman.”
Jan, don’t blame others for your actions… or your motives.
“I’m not going to lie by claiming my intentions are entirely altruistic. Not only do I want, I’m entitled to a second chance. A chance to assess the man and write a fact based story of him, at least in my head.”
Laughter. Silence.
“Thanks for listening, Dad. Talking to you just made this trip a hell of a lot less crazy.”
That part about wanting to meet Kaufman, I’m not sure it’s true. From the Department of Corrections’ website, I learned he served nine of his eleven year sentence. At least he maintained good behavior enough to knock off two years. He’s an intelligent and well educated man, plus he’s sixty eight years old. I figure I can handle him. Plus, I’m sure he doesn’t want to end up in prison again.
I’m only fifty percent fearful of knocking on his door, being alone with him in his house. The other fifty percent is reserved for the fear that he’ll tell me exactly where Ruby’s little body– bones are. Then what am I going to do?
I pass the sign that says Welcome to DuPont. Graveyard haunt number two. The cemetery’s on the hill. I follow the bumpy narrow road that takes me to it.
DuPont’s population is less than Ruston’s but the cemetery is much larger and no one is on duty to help me.
I read once that DuPont was a booming lumber town. Now most of the citizens are gone or dead and it appears there’s no one but me left to visit those who are resting in peace, at least not today.
It doesn’t take long to find the cemetery’s original plots with their chipped and faded headstones, nor does it take long to eliminate more than half the grounds. Another forty minutes, and I’ve read every name and every date of birth and death on every headstone, and not one is Ruby’s. This is turning out to be more stalling than researching.
In the car, I open a package of lemon cream cookies, know I’ll regret it, then eat three before starting the engine. While wiping away the crumbs, there’s two loud knocks on the back passenger window and the remaining cookies fly to the floorboards. No one is standing at my car. The doors are locked, all directions are clear. Just the wind, I tell myself even though the leaves on the trees aren’t moving. Probably crows.
I pull out and onto the side road that leads to the highway. My eyes watch the rearview mirror more than the road as the headstones get smaller and smaller. When I can no longer see them, I look at the face staring back at me in the mirror.
Chapter Twenty
§
The next cemetery in the next town isn’t for another seventy miles. This stretch of road is straight and smooth and quiet, unlike my thoughts.
I should reach Millet in about an hour. As much as I dislike driving in traffic, I long for the sight of another vehicle, another human being, and it isn’t long before I’m reminded to watch what I wish for.
In the distance, I see something on the side of the road. It’s little more than an out-of-place shapeless scintilla that breaks the landscape’s repeating pattern. I’ve been busy watching the giant white clouds transform into animals and faces and castles. As soon as the sun sneaks through, a sharp flash at the roadside stings my eyes. It’s a glint that’s unexplained by the ferns and milkweed and pine trees that back it.
The landscape squatter grows larger as I get closer. Like flowing lava, it solidifies into a form with a vague identity. When another cloud passes, I slow down and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Here I am in the middle of nowhere with a car parked on the side of the road and a man beside it, waving his arms in precise semi-circles.
I go from sixty five to forty miles per hour and slower yet. Another few minutes, and I’ll either have to stop for him or leave him on this empty highway; one that’s too long to walk for help.
Every reporter alive has either read or written the story of the innocent female who disappears on a lonely stretch of highway, whose bones are later found in the woods on that lonely highway.
My phone has a dim but distinct signal. What are the odds that the man doesn’t have a phone he could use to call for help? Probably the same odds of a man waiting for that lone female driver on a desolate road, but still.
I glance in my rearview mirror, think of those two knocks at the cemetery, and pull to a stop beside him. I lower the passenger window, not enough for him to reach in an arm, but enough for the barrel of a gun to miss breaking the glass.
“Whoa! Thanks for stopping. My car broke down. It’s the carburetor or spark plugs, I guess.”
He looks to be in his mid-twenties. A fresh, sweet face, trendy haircut, clean clothes. He reminds me of Ted Bundy. He’s got a big smile, a single dimple, white teeth. Ted Bundy. He’s waiting with a frozen smile and eyes that are growing larger.
“Have you called a tow truck?”
“No… my phone’s dead.” He’s bent forward so his eyes line up with the open slit at the top of the window, his nose is making a print on the glass.
“I can call for you or for someone who can pick you up.”
“Yeah.
Well, thing is, I don’t have any cash or a credit card. I’m on my way home. McCleary.” He says this as if I’ve heard of the town. “Listen, I’m not a crazy killer. Please don’t leave me out here.”
He’s either a scared kid or a good actor. “Every crazy killer I’ve ever met says he’s not a crazy killer.”
He blinks rapidly, but just for a second.
“Let me see some ID,” I say, knowing I’m going to have to lower the window just a little for him to slide it through. I cringe when he reaches behind him and breathe again when he takes out his wallet. Christopher Alan Williams. Height and weight believable, picture a good match, McCleary address, organ donor. He’s twenty six.
“Okay,” I say, slipping his driver’s license through the crack.
“Great! I just need to lock my door and grab my bag.”
My mind screams, and grab my rape kit, but before I can hit the gas pedal, he’s back and pulling on the door handle. I push the power lock and he’s beside me, leaning too close as he tosses his knapsack into the backseat.
“Chris,” he says, extending his soft hand with its long fingers and buffed nails.
“Jan,” I say, shaking his hand, whipping the steering wheel too fast, and throwing gravel behind us. “How far’s McCleary?” I shout and grit my teeth.
“About three hundred miles.”
He twists around, lifts off his seat and I freeze, my skin moistens. There’s rummaging I can’t make out, then he’s back with a compact mirror, comb, and styling gel, which he uses with cinematic flair.
I feel guilty– still nervous, but guilty. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him fussing with his eyebrows, applying the apparently multi-purpose gel to his lips, which are now worthy of a pout in the mirror.
“I’m only going to Baxter.”
“Anywhere is better than the middle of no-boys’ land,” he says. “I’ll have Stevie pick me up there. He’s so worried about me by now.”
“Okay, but first I have to make a stop in Millet, at the cemetery.”
He gives me his full attention with a devastated frown, his fingers press to his chest.