Crimes of the Sarahs

by Kristen Tracy

  “Why? What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “Deep stuff,” Sarah A says.

  “Deep how?” I ask.

  I’m wondering if this has anything to do with the guy phase and its multiple glitches.

  “I wish I knew my family history,” Sarah A says.

  “You just said that you didn’t want to find your mother,” I say.

  “I don’t. I wish there was a way to learn everything else, and not have to figure that piece out,” Sarah A says.

  “What are you most curious about?” I ask.

  “I wonder about my dad. I wonder if he’s funny. Not just a little funny, but the kind of person who can make anybody laugh,” Sarah A says. “Maybe he’s a stand-up comedian. Remember when I told you that I’d found a body in your backyard. That was so hilarious. I’ve heard that comedic timing is learned, but I bet there’s something hereditary about it too.”

  I didn’t think Sarah A telling me there was a body in my backyard was all that funny. But I don’t challenge her memory of the event.

  “Do you wonder whether or not you have brothers and sisters?” I ask.

  “Oh, I know I do,” Sarah A says, turning to face me. “I get these feelings all the time, for no reason at all, I’ll feel excited or sad and I know it’s because something good or bad is happening to one of my siblings somewhere.”

  “Vance must be a huge disappointment,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “For everyone.”

  She slips off her shoes again and closes her eyes.

  “I might come from a big family,” she says. “I might be related to famous people: scientists, movie stars, writers, billionaires.”

  I find it doubtful that she’s related to billionaires.

  “Some of my relatives might live in Europe. They might own their own planes.”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “One day, I bet I learn my story.”

  “But what if it’s sad?”

  “I don’t care,” she says. “I want to know.”

  “What if it’s really sad?” I say.

  “How sad could it be? Like they’re all dead?” she asks.

  “Or worse,” I say.

  “What’s worse than being all dead?”

  “I don’t know. What if your entire family and their family and everybody’s family who they knew died in the Holocaust?”

  “That couldn’t have happened. I’m sixteen,” she says.

  “Maybe all your distant relatives were killed. Just rounded up and taken to camps and exterminated,” I say.

  “Then how would I even be here?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe, like, one person made it out and escaped to the suburbs,” I say.

  “I’d want to know,” Sarah A says. “I’d want to know the whole story.”

  “You’re only saying that because you know that’s not your story,” I say.

  “Maybe. But what you gave me was an impossible scenario. That could never happen. I don’t think anything that dramatic has ever happened,” Sarah A says.

  I don’t disagree with her.

  “Hey, do you want any chips?” Sarah A asks.

  “No.”

  “I’m going to get some for the drive back,” she says.

  “Hurry,” I say.

  As I watch her go inside, I’m trying to figure out how I feel. This morning, I thought I was on the brink of becoming an individual, but now I’m right back where I started. Mostly. This time Sarah A doesn’t wait in line. She walks in and she walks out.

  “They’re corn chips,” Sarah A says climbing into the car. “These are my favorite.” She pulls the bag from her jacket pocket.

  “Did you buy them or steal them?” I ask.

  “You don’t want to know,” she says.

  It’s official. I’m back on the roller coaster. I barely like that ride. The rattling of bolts. The feeling that the whole crazy thing could give way. I prefer the flume ride. It’s just one plunge and you can see it coming. Plus, you’re not connected to a string of fast-flying cars. It’s just your flume. Being on that ride gives you the illusion that you’re drifting at your own pace. It’s almost like you’re in control of it.

  Chapter 25

  When I call Liam I don’t tell him about the planned renovations of our home. That’s a body blow that should be delivered by a parent.

  “Liam, I found something buried in the backyard and I want to talk to you about it,” I say.

  “Was it a body?” he asks. I can hear him laughing. I don’t know why everybody thinks that’s a funny joke. People really do find bodies buried in backyards. And I’m sure they don’t stand around and laugh about it when it happens.

  “No, I found a Godzilla lunch box,” I say.

  “Wow, that was a long time ago,” Liam says. “Was my Godzilla action figure still inside? I loved that thing.”

  “Yes,” I say. But I don’t mention that Sarah A swiped it.

  “Hey, Sarah, what were you doing digging around in the backyard?”

  “Seasonal work,” I say.

  “What does that even mean?” he asks.

  “Listen, I’m just calling to figure out why you did that. I’m curious.”

  And that’s the truth.

  “Well, let’s see. How to sum it up for you? I guess I buried the Godzilla stuff because I grew disillusioned with the way pop culture had commandeered the image of Godzilla for commercial purposes.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “And you cared about that?”

  “Sarah, that sort of stuff, for me, is about who I am and why I’m here.”

  “Godzilla?”

  “Listen, Godzilla is a Japanese creation that represents that culture’s fear and anxiety over being the only country to have atomic warfare used against it. The whole idea of Godzilla is about a dormant sea beast being disturbed and altered by nuclear testing. Radioactive bombs created it, and nobody even thinks about that. Most people look at it as just another monster. Capitalism has divorced it from its real meaning.”

  “People don’t enjoy thinking about atomic bombs.”

  “Sarah, I know you don’t like talking politics, so I’ll spare you my position on nuclear weapons. So that’s it?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You’re not going to ask me about the book?”

  I know I should want to ask him about the book, but I don’t. “No,” I say. “That’s it.”

  “You should take a look at it. It will bother you too.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” I say.

  “Sarah, I don’t know who you think you’re kidding, but deep down you care about who you are. We all do. It’s part of being human.”

  “But I’m not like you. I’m not political. Hot topics don’t stir me. At all.”

  “Dad told me about what you said to Big Don. That seemed to stir you,” Liam says.

  “That guy attacked Mom,” I say. “That’s different.”

  “Not really. You care about your family. Some people care about their relatives and other issues.”

  I want Liam to understand me. I don’t think anyone really understands me. He’s my brother, shouldn’t he get me?

  “When I was at the car lot cleaning cars with Johanna, she kept going on and on about the Potawatomi, and do you know what I told her?”

  “I don’t want to guess.”

  “I told her that I thought of myself as white. And I believe that. I’m not an Indian, Liam. I wasn’t raised to be one.”

  “I don’t even know what the last part of your statement is supposed to mean,” Liam says. “But this isn’t just about you.”

  “Sure it is,” I say.

  “When you come out to visit, I’m going to take you to Alcatraz.”

  “I’m not interested in looking at a prison. My criminal days are behind me.”

  “In 1969, a group of Indians took it over. They held the island for months
,” Liam says.

  “Why?”

  “There was a loophole in a treaty that allowed for land to revert back to Indians, so a group seized Alcatraz.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Our great-grandmother went there. She didn’t go over in the beginning on the Thanksgiving takeover. She went later and brought supplies.”

  “Nobody has ever told me this,” I say.

  “It’s a sad story.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “It was such a weird situation. I mean, one day to have Anthony Quinn and Jonathan Winters parading around the island, then next to have so much turmoil. And then a little girl died.”

  “Were we related to her?” I ask. I’m trying to figure out what makes this story so sad.

  “No, it was Richard Oakes’s little girl. He was one of the leaders. She fell three stories down a stairwell. She suffered a lot of head injuries. She died the following week.”

  “That is sad,” I say.

  “Well, our great-grandma was one of the people who found her. And after she came back, she was never the same. Seeing that changed her—”

  I interrupt him. “Liam,” I say, “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

  “It’s important to think about who came before you and what their lives were like. And as long as you’re on this planet, you should try to make it a better place. It’s not just about you.”

  “I know that,” I say.

  I think about my hallway metaphor. Maybe I got it backward. Maybe it’s not about the doors before me that remain unopened. Maybe it’s about the doors that are behind me, the ones people have already passed through for me. Maybe I need to open them, and look inside and see what has happened.

  “I don’t expect this conversation to change your life,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Call me later if you’ve got more questions. About college. Or Godzilla. Or anything.”

  He hangs up and I walk over to my desk and pick up the Potawatomi book. I flip to the first page.

  “These stories are written for third-grade children to use in Social Studies. They present background information on the Potawatomi Indians in Kalamazoo.”

  That seems innocent enough. I turn several pages. At the end of the chapters there are questions to think about.

  “What are many of the ways we keep healthy and strong that the Indians did not know about?”

  That’s a lame question. It sort of implies that Indians weren’t smart enough to stay in shape. I turn until I reach a section titled “When The White People Came.” It sounds like it’s going to be an awful read. I go there anyway.

  “But the white men were more progressive and better educated than the Indians. They could see how this country could be made into good farmland and how great towns could be built. They wanted this land for their homes. The things which happened were not surprising. The stronger men drove away the weaker men.”

  No wonder Liam buried this thing in the earth. It’s flat and misleading and egotistical and boring and totally wrong. I close the book and let it fall to the floor. Here’s the truth: I have a story and I don’t like my story. Not because it’s sad, which it is, but because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.

  Chapter 26

  My parents ordered the commercial Dumpster and it will arrive next week. Apparently, my mother knows a designer who restores old homes, so our house will be enhanced but not altered. My father seems okay about this.

  While I still consider myself reformed, I’ve decided not to tell my parents about lending John Glenn to Sarah A. I won’t be informing them of his day absence either. Why worry them? And as long as I don’t break any laws, what’s the hurt? I’m going to pretend that John Glenn is still here. I’ll make it look like he’s eating his food. I’ll claim to take him out for walks. I’ll talk to him as if everything is normal. I might even put a dog turd in the driveway just to throw everybody off.

  I grab my newly reinstated and fully charged cell phone and kiss John Glenn on his blond snout.

  “We’re going for a ride,” I say.

  I open the front door, but instead of trotting obediently to my car, my dog has other plans. He races down the trail toward the lake.

  “Come back!” I yell.

  He doesn’t.

  As I run after him, tree branches thwack me in the face. I watch John Glenn plunge into the lake and paddle around its shallow edge.

  “We don’t have time for this,” I tell him.

  He treads water and pursues a pair of ducks.

  “Leave it!” I yell.

  I feel powerless.

  “Please, John Glenn,” I say.

  My parents are getting coffee a few blocks away at Water Street. I need to get out of here. John Glenn finally pads up the shore toward me.

  “You’re going to smell like wet dog,” I warn.

  He walks toward me and pauses to shake loose the water.

  “Get over here,” I tell him. I am not using my special dog voice with him. I’m pissed. He follows me back up the hill and I stick him, dripping wet, in my backseat.

  “I’m very disappointed in you,” I say.

  He pants excitedly. He loves car rides.

  Sarah C is politely waiting outside her house. She’s wearing a deep green tank top and denim shorts. She looks fantastic. Redheads always look good in green.

  “John Glenn is wet and I think he has gas,” I say.

  “Good. He’ll keep any interlopers at Yankee Springs to a serious distance.”

  Sarah C is so funny. I forgot what a great sense of humor she has. Too bad she isn’t loyal.

  “By the way, when we pick up Sarah B, she’s going to be in a bad mood.”

  “Why? Did the Tigers lose?” I ask.

  “No. They’re winning. But she’s going to spend the night with Sarah A at the cabin and will miss tomorrow’s game.”

  “Can’t she listen to it on a radio?” I ask.

  “Sarah A doesn’t want a sports distraction when Roman Karbowski is there.”

  “Is it just Roman and Sarah A and Sarah B?” I ask. “That seems like a weird way to kick off the guy phase.”

  “As I already mentioned, the guy phase isn’t going according to plan,” Sarah C says.

  I’m dying to know the full extent of these complications. But I’d rather hear about them from Sarah B. She’s the only Sarah who’s never totally turned on me.

  When I drive up to her house, Sarah B isn’t waiting outside.

  “Do you want me to get her?” Sarah C asks.

  “Here she comes,” I say.

  She’s barefoot, her sneakers flung over her shoulder. She’s pulled her Tigers cap low over her forehead. I think she’s frowning, but it’s hard to tell.

  “What’s that smell?” Sarah B asks. “Is there a dead animal in your trunk?”

  “No. There’s a wet and gassy animal in her backseat,” Sarah C says.

  John Glenn sits calmly in the center of the backseat.

  “Can he move over?” Sarah B asks.

  “Try not to sit downwind of him,” Sarah C says.

  “Nice idea, but I’m in a compact car,” Sarah B says. “What do you feed your dog anyway?”

  “Breeder’s Choice,” I say.

  John Glenn finally moves over so that he’s directly behind Sarah C. I flip on the radio to a pop station and we proceed for a long part of the drive in silence.

  “Vance is bipolar,” Sarah C says. “He’s been officially diagnosed.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say.

  “I don’t think Vance is the only Aberdeen with mental problems,” Sarah C says.

  “Is this because Sarah A hit you?” I ask. “That was totally uncalled for.”

  “I’m not even talking about that. Since you left, things haven’t exactly been normal,” Sarah C says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if we should go there,” Sarah B says.r />
  I glance in the rearview mirror, but Sarah B avoids looking at me.

  “Sarah A has been acting sort of erratic,” Sarah C says.

  “She’s been hanging out with Roman a lot,” Sarah B says.

  “But that’s good, right? It means the guy phase is off to a great start,” I say.

  “Emotionally speaking, spending time with Roman hasn’t exactly leveled her off,” Sarah C says.

  “We really shouldn’t talk about this,” Sarah B says. “Meena Cooper’s family plans to prosecute the culprits to the fullest extent of the law when and if they find out who’s responsible for their property damage. FYI, it was us.”

  “Sarah T isn’t going to rat on us, are you?” Sarah C asks.

  “No. I would never rat on you guys.”

  “Well, Roman’s girlfriend, Meena, has been experiencing a certain amount of property damage,” Sarah C says.

  “He still has a girlfriend, but he’s also seeing Sarah A?” I ask.

  “He’s a classic two-timer,” Sarah B says.

  “So was Frank Lloyd Wright,” I say.

  “Okay. Well, Sarah A has been framing Roman’s ex-girlfriend for the crimes,” Sarah C says.

  “His ex-girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Maryann Lehman,” Sarah C says.

  “But Maryann Lehman would never do anything wrong,” I say. “She’s virtuous.”

  “I know,” Sarah C says. “We’ve been framing her. Or, more accurately, Sarah A has been framing her.”

  “What are you guys doing, vandalizing Meena’s car?” I ask.

  “No,” Sarah C says.

  “Her house?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” Sarah B says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “We’re girdling their trees,” Sarah C says.

  I gasp. That sounds horrible. Wait. What are they doing?

  “What does that even mean?” I ask.

  “We each take a pocketknife and scratch the bark all the way around their trees, so that the xylem, phloem, and cambium system breaks down, rupturing their nutrition cycle, and the trees die.”

  “Sounds slow-going and not all that serious,” I say. “Lawfully speaking, is that really considered vandalism?”

  “When you take out an apple orchard, trust me, it’s serious,” Sarah C says.