by Austin,Robin
Rick has sprinted up the stairs. I stumble trying to get up, not sure what’s going on. I start to move towards the bedroom when he grabs my shoulder. I scream in pain and fall to the floor. He pushes me to my back. I kick him with my bare feet.
“Don’t you ever talk to her. Do you understand me? Don’t you come near my family.”
We both stop. We’re freeze-framed caricatures of our pretend life. I’m still on my back and Rick is leaning over me, his face just inches from mine. One hand is squeezing my arm too hard. His brow is sweaty, his jaw clenched tight. I don’t know this maniac face, this terrifying man– but I do. I’ve seen this face before. I know I have. He pulls back and his bizarre features dissolve into the darkness, farther still and he’s one of the shadows.
“I won’t,” I whisper. “I won’t ever go near them. Please leave now. Go home.”
His footsteps are heavy and slow on the steps. When the garage door closes, I go to the bedroom and lock the door.
Chapter Thirty Four
§
The phone’s ringing in the hotel room is what wakes me. Today is Ruby’s funeral. I braved night driving to sneak back to Ruston late and go as unnoticed as possible. The hotel clerk is a little more friendly than my last visit, still there is distance between us. Since that night with Rick, there is distance between me and almost everyone.
I’m sure my detachment will follow me to the church and the cemetery. It doesn’t matter. I’m not here for the others, as Aljala would say. I’m here for Eunice and Matilda and Ruby. And for myself.
Detective Martin is my eight o’clock phone call. He says he has news about the child and my car accident. I start to remind him that it wasn’t an accident, but am too groggy to make a coherent argument. “You’ve arrested someone?”
“We did. You got time to stop by the station before the funeral?”
“How did you know I was in town?”
“It’s my job,” he says, like he’s said it hundreds of times before.
I want to know who else is keeping track of me in this town besides Martin. I want to know about the person who terrorized me on the highway. Actually, I want neither of these. “Is he in jail or on your friendly streets?”
“Made bail, but you’re not at risk.”
“Seriously? Someone tried to kill me—”
“Ms. Abbott, please come to the station so we can talk about this in person. This ain’t a conversation you have over the phone.”
I start to argue for the sake of arguing, but I can’t waste any more time that I could be using to sleep. I agree to meet with him and hang up, pissed and fed up with everyone in this town. There’s no way for me to win here. Let this be the last time I ever set foot in Ruston, I tell myself and this time I mean it. If they want to prosecute the psychopath, which I doubt, they can do it without me.
I have breakfast in the hotel bar, the diner is now on my do-not-visit list. The list is long and growing. I’m in all black: dress, nylons, shoes, and a hat and veil in tow for later. Sunglasses will complete my fashion statement. This attire will get me as close to the shadows as possible. Blending into my mysterious dark universe is my personal goal, a selfish one, but still one worthwhile.
Martin is waiting for me when I arrive at the station. My outfit gets me more attention than less. We sit in his office with the door closed. Martin is a heavy man, today with a heavy load that causes him to grunt and sigh. He opens a file that takes center stage on his desk as though it’s all that concerns him, or so he wants me to think.
“First off, we got the DNA back. Cohoon’s the biological mother.” He says this like a doctor might announce to a patient that their test results show terminal cancer.
Of course Kaufman’s the father, of this I’m sure. The testing was necessary, just to close the books. I wait, no longer interested. He served his time and like the judge said, he’ll serve eternity in a far worse place. I don’t feel guilt for expediting the man’s second sentence.
“Woman’s kin,” Martin says. He’s flipping through the papers in the file– nervous or uncomfortable or both. “Brother.” He closes the file and pushes it to the side.
“What?” I think I’ve missed part of the conversation. “What are we talking about?” I say, and get a raised eyebrow.
Martin clears his throat, rubs stubble on his chin that I hadn’t noticed. “DNA.” He looks embarrassed. He reminds me of a father who’s having the sex talk with his thirteen year old son. The way I know Rick would behave.
“Roger Cohoon. Used to visit the woman, girl back then. Folks didn’t think anything of letting him spend time in her room. That’s where she stayed most of the time. Nobody checked.”
Martin isn’t looking at me. He’s fidgeting, moving things on his desk.
“Hell, none of that family was ever right. Everyone of them got some dang problem or other. Parents made a mess of raising those kids. Roger’s DNA’s in the database for an incident a while back. Got off, but we took a sample and had a quick match up here. The system worked.” Martin looks up and leans back with a smile he tries to suppress.
“Why is he out of jail?”
Martin shakes his head. “Never in jail. Crime against his sister was over three decades ago. Shoot, even back then he wouldn’t have been charged. Police stayed out of folks’ personal affairs. It’s too late now. Statute of limitation has already run.”
“So life goes on. Time heals all. What if there are others?”
“He’s got that pig farm—”
“Pigs—”
Martin raises his hand like he’s directing traffic. I ignore him.
“That’s a thought I never wanted to have. If that’s the best you’ve got, never mind. What about the driver that tried to kill me?”
I almost feel sorry for the man as he rubs his forehead like he’s got the worse headache of his life. He pulls another file from his side drawer.
“Ms. Abbott.” Dramatic sigh. “I know you’re angry, but other folks have their own share of problems.” He opens the file, stares at the papers inside. “I’m going to share some information with you that I’d appreciate your not passing on to others. Person in that truck had a bone to pick with you. A big one.”
“Sorry, but that person doesn’t have my sympathy.”
“Might just change your mind about that.”
“You’re stalling, Detective.” He nods in agreement.
“Kasey Ann Fowler. Kasey Ann Kaufman. Actually, she’s got two bones to pick with you. One more than she thought she had before she read the note her mother left her.”
I start to speak, then stop. Martin puts the file back in the drawer. I’m mad. I don’t want to feel remorseful and certainly not guilty, but I do.
“I recognized… there was an old picture of Fowler on a news report. I saw the resemblance. Where is she?”
“That’s her business.”
“After what she did to me? Isn’t it illegal in this town to try to kill another driver, run into their car? Why isn’t she in jail?”
“Says you flashed your brights at her. Said she was going by you in the opposite direction and you flashed her vehicle and she lost control on the slick road.”
“And you believe her?”
“No, but what proof do I have? It was dark out, pouring down rain, no witnesses. You said on the call that you thought it might be somebody with car problems. She turned herself in. I barely got a hit and run situation here.” Martin shifts in his chair.
“You can talk to the prosecutor if you want. If you can convince him to file criminal charges, you best plan on spending more time in Ruston helping him build his case then testifying at the trial.”
Martin raises his eyebrows and tilts his head back, then shakes it like he’s defeated. “She’ll be charged with leaving the scene of an accident with extenuating circumstances. Her attorney says she’ll plead guilty and pay a fine. Your insurance company will come after her for the car damage then—”
“The
n she’ll go back to pouring coffee at the diner.”
“You can bring a civil suit. Pay a traffic reconstructionist to prove your case. Take her inheritance. It’s not a perfect world, Ms. Abbott. I think you already know justice would be harder fought than won in this matter.”
I’ve stopped watching Martin. His fidgeting is getting on my nerves almost as much as his good old boy attitude. His all for good cause exoneration that leaves me the perpetrator. I focus on the window behind the man. Instead of saying that fighting hard for justice is all that will ever matter, I stare at the trees that are hanging on to the last of their orange leaves, the puffy clouds that are moving too fast, trying to get the hell out of Ruston.
“Will Roger Cohoon be at the funeral?”
“No ma’am.” This Martin says sitting up straight. His tone is certain and strong. It’s a hell or high water tone. This one thing, Martin can and will do.
“I appreciate that,” I say, still watching those rushing clouds.
Ruston’s Christian Church is smaller and older than the Methodist Church. Between the two, it seems a better place to hold the service because it seems anything but complicated.
Aljala stands when he sees me approach and waves a wide arc with his long arm, drawing attention I was hoping to avoid. Eunice sits on a bench, wearing an old coat, the blue and yellow dress peeks through at the bottom. With her hat and gloves, she looks ready for a winter snowstorm. As usual, she’s focused on staring. A woman I recognize as Helen, one of Eunice’s regular nurses, is standing nearby, smoking a cigarette.
“Ms. Jan, I knew you would come. Look Ms. Eunice, it is your friend.”
Eunice doesn’t look, doesn’t react at all. I sit beside her and tell her I’m glad to see her. I tell Aljala the same. Helen finishes her cigarette and we go inside.
What the church lacks on the outside, it more than makes up for on the inside. The stained glass windows spray rainbows over the bright white walls, the red carpet is thick and new. There’s flowers of every color. A tiny casket sets in the front, topped with white lilies.
We’re asked to sign the guest book– for who, I don’t know. While we’re busy complying, Eunice slips away. Aljala is the first to see her moving quickly down the aisle, to the casket. The nurse follows as I watch and wait.
Aljala is trying to coax her into going to the front pew, but she’s having none of it. Now she’s gotten everyone’s attention with her incoherent yelling and slapping at both Aljala and Helen, who has joined in trying to strong arm Eunice. Their efforts are only making matters worse.
I’m marching down the aisle before I even realize it. By the time I reach Eunice my rage is overwhelming. My rage at Roger Cohoon, at Kaufman, Palmer, Rick, Fowler for leaving her daughter, my father for leaving me, and myself. I take it out on Helen and a little on Aljala too.
“Stop,” I yell, and the church, filled with whispers, is silenced. “Leave her,” I demand and they do. I have my arm around Eunice’s shoulder and we stand at the casket. “She’s okay now. She’s home,” I whisper, and I feel Eunice relax against me.
Despite the minister’s words, the organ music that plays softly, the silence that waits for us to do otherwise, we stand at the casket, defiant of rules and social norms and battles not fought but won anyway.
When the service is over and it’s time to go to the cemetery, Eunice takes my hand and Helen follows us to my car. I expect the woman to protest, but she holds the door for Eunice then slips into the backseat without a word.
Our procession moves slower than necessary to the Ruston Cemetery, still we arrive too soon. Standing at the gravesite, it should not sadden me but it does that Ruby will lay one space removed from her grandmother, the space that will one day be filled by Eunice.
Eunice’s hand rests in mine. Dozens of strangers crowd around as we sit under a weatherworn tent, listen to tales of God’s eternal promise for the angel in heaven– Eunice’s angel. I scan the crowd for Pastor Davenport. As was the case at the church, he is not here.
We are the last to leave, and without a word, Eunice follows Aljala. She doesn’t give me a second look, no goodbyes are exchanged this time. My job is done. Not the job I was hired to do by Matrix, the one that waited patiently for me all these years.
Helen walks with me back to the row of cars, blowing the smoke from her cigarette away from me as a quiet breeze blows it back.
“I was thinking what you did was a bad thing,” she says. “I don’t anymore. I think what you did gave Eunice some peace. Enough to let Matilda go. Stand up a little more for herself. Do her own thinking. Most don’t figure she’s got a thought in her head, but I know she has plenty of them. Maybe she’ll come out of her shell more, just like Dr. Rodham said she would one day.”
“What do you mean, enough to let Matilda go?”
“She did is all. None of us have heard a peep from Matilda since the cops came and dug up Ruby. Can’t say that I won’t miss her though. Dr. Newman says Matilda served some sort of purpose. I don’t remember how he put it exactly. It’s like Eunice couldn’t ever say what happened to her so she made up Matilda to say it for her. Now Eunice don’t need her anymore, but she’ll always have her.
“In spirit,” I say.
“Yeah, that too. We’re putting Matilda’s name on the headstone we’re having done up. Ruby Matilda Cohoon.” Helen drops her cigarette at the car and crushes it with her shoe. “You coming back to Ashland?”
“No, I’m done there.”
Helen laughs and a loud spasmodic cough follows. “Okay, guess we better get back before it starts raining again.” She climbs in the backseat of Aljala’s car where Eunice sits, silently staring.
“Ms. Jan, thank you so much for coming,” Aljala says. “See just as I said, she needed you to be here today.”
“Look out for her, will you?”
He smiles, “Of course, I shall always do that.” He starts to turn away then stops. “Remember less complicated is sometimes best.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I watch Aljala drive away, watch until the car is out of view. Watch until I hear someone calling my name.
“Doris, Mrs. Blackwell. I’m so glad you both came.”
“I had a little problem getting us here so we missed the church service, but at least we made it before they lowered the casket,” Doris says.
“God rest her little soul,” Martha says, dabbing a tissue at her eye.
Doris asks me for help getting Martha and her wheelchair back in the church van, which she claims she shouldn’t be driving. “Never learned how to use those stick shift things.”
“I’m sorry that Pastor Davenport couldn’t attend the service.” The reporter in me still can’t let this one go.
Doris wrinkles her nose, squints at me like I’m far away again. “Couldn’t is sure the right word all right. You went and missed the scoop on that one. I wanted to tell you the Sunday you were trying to sneak off from the man. Guess you already had him pegged.”
“I had him pegged for someone who didn’t care much for me—”
“Uh huh. Well you should have had him pegged for a thief and a liar. All the years the man was singing the praises of the Lord, he was filling his dang pockets. If it wasn’t for you asking about Martha here and me and the women’s study group paying her a visit, I’d never suspected his sticky finger act.”
“The man stole my sapphire bracelet,” Martha says, leaning forward in her seat.
“When I didn’t get a chance to tell you what he was up to, I went to the police and reported the man. He’ll get his day in court followed by his day of judgment.” I wait while Doris struggles to get in the driver’s seat. “Will you be coming back to visit us soon?”
“No. I believe this time, Ruston’s seen the last of me.”
Chapter Thirty Five
§
Eight months after Ruby’s funeral, I held my mother’s hand, just as I had held Eunice’s, as we sat before my father’s grave
. Her eyes were saucer round, her lips taunt and silent as the casket was lowered.
My father never left the nursing home except for numerous trips to the emergency room. That initially planned one week and we’ll see how he’s doing started the countdown to his swift demise. The days he knew my mother and me dwindled, though slowly. It was his body that lost the battle that my mother insisted he refused to fight.
The cause of death was listed as pneumonia, but I knew better. In the end, my father chose to write his final story his way. He wasn’t going to hang around for some arbitrary deadline. The one he’d miss because he couldn’t remember it.
In the last conversation I had with my wise and wonderful father, he told me how proud he was of me. I was his child, of course he would say that. His words spoken of me were not surprising, his words spoken of himself were.
“I was a small town reporter,” he’d said. “Never had any big stories to report in this town. Things were simpler then. Remember that time Stephen King was suppose to come to town? That was the biggest story we almost ever got. It was a hell of a ride, kiddo.”
I had put my father on a pedestal. He was my father, of course I would. Unfortunately, I’d done so at my own expense. I’d seen my career as teetering in quicksand when all the while I was standing on bedrock. And honestly, it wasn’t such a bad ride.
Once I finally got the house on the market, it sold quickly and Rick walked away without a cent. He tried to force a different outcome, but he was in no position to bargain, morally, mostly legally. Although we spoke by phone on a few occasions, our lawyers did most of the talking. That night on the upstairs hallway was the last time I saw my husband of over thirty years, and the last time I expect I ever will.
My mother is ashamed of herself. She has, as she puts it, a gentlemen friend. The last month of his life, the father I knew had already left us. My mother raged as his withered body fought the doctors’ and nurses’ efforts to keep him alive. I once thought my mother was the strongest person I’d ever known. She was only half of what was strong in her world. I found out that this friend of hers is someone she has coffee with some mornings, but to my mother, she is now and will forever be a scarlet woman.