This is Not a Love Letter

by Kim Purcell

  Finally, I make it downstairs. I’m breathing hard.

  That damn car alarm.

  I climb over the magazines in the hallway and slide my way through the living room, to the back door. Okay. It’s still locked. Nobody’s in the house, not yet. I examine Dad’s gun. It quivers in my hand. Must have been two years since he took me out to the firing range. I have to find the safety. It’s not the kind of thing you want to look for when the scary man is rushing you.

  I lift it up. There.

  Dad’s deep voice grunts in my ear: “Click the safety off and hold the gun with two hands to steady it. It’s about balance and control. Squeeze the entire gun, don’t just pull the trigger, squeeze it like a chicken’s neck.”

  I don’t want to have to shoot anyone. Have you been rubbing off on me? I don’t even want to look at this thing.

  My huge black purse is hanging on the hooks you put up by the door. It’s safe, relatively, and I’ll be able to get the gun fast, if I need it. I lower the gun down inside the purse.

  My heart is fluttering. I listen to the car alarm and stare at my purse. The gun claws at the insides, growls. It feels so alive.

  And then, there’s another sound, a real sound, the sound of gravel crunching on our walkway. It’s too loud to be a raccoon.

  I step back, trip, and then, I’m falling backward. My hand dives down onto a pile of rope mixed with some papers and the rabbit bottle from when we were going to get a rabbit but we didn’t. I lie there, clutching the rabbit bottle, like it can save me.

  Another crunch. Yep, that’s the gravel. And there’s a dragging sound too. It is the sound of a body being dragged.

  I pull myself out of the ropes and rush at my black purse. The gate squeals open and slams shut. There is a definite dragging noise. I dive my hand down into my purse.

  The gun climbs into my fingers. I grip it. Slide it out. Hold it with two hands. Move by the door. Dad’s words: “Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it, squeeze it like a chicken’s neck.”

  The dragging, oh god, the dragging. The doorknob rattles. Holy crap. They’re trying to break in.

  I unlock the safety on the gun. My hand is shaking. I raise the gun up. Point it at the door.

  “Who is it?” I scream.

  12:36 AM Monday, my back door

  “Let me in!” Steph’s annoyed voice.

  “Oh my god.” I put on the safety, shove the gun back in my purse, and blow out long and slow through my mouth. Holy shit. I open the door. Steph is clinging to her giant, heavy comforter and a big duffel bag filled with her stuff—that’s what was dragging across the gravel.

  “You freaked the crap out of me,” I say.

  “Why?” She marches past me with her comforter train.

  “You’re creeping around, dragging something. What do you think?”

  She gives me a look like I’m whacked. “Okay, it was a bag?”

  “It sounded like a body.” I smirk. “What do you have in that thing? Are you moving in?”

  She barks out a laugh. “Maybe.”

  “Did you set off that car alarm?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nope. That was going off already.” She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else, but then she doesn’t.

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, clearly, I’m freaking out here.” I don’t tell her about how I almost shot her through the door.

  “I just looked online—people are such dicks. You think I’m going to leave you here by yourself, you cray-cray. You should have called me.”

  “I wanted you to get some sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep thinking about all the hate you’re getting. Anyway, I have to be here in case anyone eggs your house or something. I am a human shield!” She reaches her arms out and stands in front of me as if she’s blocking bullets.

  I smile. I’m grateful for Steph, that’s my first thank-you for the night. Number two: grateful she wasn’t a killer. Number three: grateful for the gun.

  Steph glances at the door, like she’s worried now too. The car alarm has beeped off.

  “What?”

  “Nothing…” Steph gives me her big old smile, showing all her teeth, which means she wants something. “Maybe you could make some cookies?” She blinks her big brown eyes and bats her eyelashes, bunching up the comforter around her waist.

  “You came here for cookies?”

  “Damn straight. Chocolate chip. And then I’m sleeping here. No arguing. Or I can make the cookies if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I got it.” It’s something to do at least. I reach into my plastic box for the ingredients and send you a sugar-powered message: Making your favorite cookies. Think: hot, melted chocolate chips.

  I dump the cookie mix into my bowl and reach into the fridge for eggs. “After this, I’m out of eggs.” Sadness twists inside me, ropes around my intestines, squeezes them like a wet towel.

  “You gotta go shopping.”

  “Chris always drives me. He better get home soon.” I add oil and eggs to the dry ingredients. Don’t tell her how the thought of grocery shopping makes me ill. We’ve been doing it together for the last eight months, like we’re already married.

  “You should have considered that before you went on this break.”

  “Yep, along with a lot of other things.” Oh gosh. The lump in my throat feels like an orange shoved in there.

  Steph winces. “I’m sorry, I keep saying the wrong thing.”

  I sniff. “Don’t worry about it. If you can’t say the wrong thing around me, who can you say the wrong thing around?”

  “You’d never use a guy for his car.”

  “Nope,” I say. “Would you?”

  She laughs. “Um, yes.”

  That’s so true. “It’s nice having him drive me around, but sometimes I like to ride my bike. It’s my only exercise.”

  “Cycling hurts my crotch.”

  “You need a better seat,” I say.

  “It’s boring.”

  “Not if you dip in and out of traffic.” I slide the first batch of cookies in the toaster oven and look over at Steph stretched out on the sofa. “Cycling makes me feel alive, you know?”

  “Until you’re dead.”

  I shrug.

  “I like to sit on my ass and have someone else drive.”

  After the first batch of cookies are done, I put two on a plate for Steph, and then I think of how you always try to help people who are sad and the only person I know who’s worse off than me is Beth and maybe she’d like some cookies too. So I put the remaining two on a plate.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Steph, and take the cookies outside.

  Soon as I’m outside, I think of the whistler. I hurry around the side of the house and open the neighbor’s gate. Sure hope the dogs are inside. I knock on her door.

  I don’t hear anything inside. I’m thinking, Oh shit, this is a mistake, I mean, the lights are on, but it’s after midnight. And what about the whistler? Then she calls in her croaky voice: “Hold on.” She’s unlocking the door. Then it’s her head in the crack and the dogs are going crazy behind her.

  “I brought you warm cookies.” I feel like a goddamn Girl Scout.

  “You brought me cookies?” Her prematurely wrinkled face twists, as if it doesn’t know what to do with this news.

  I hold up the plate.

  “Thank you.” She reaches a skinny hand through the door and takes the plate. “I can’t—the dogs.”

  “No worries,” I say. “Just dropping them off. Bye.”

  I hurry out the yard, feel kind of stupid. Don’t know why I did that.

  Steph is on the sofa, eating her first cookie. She’s grabbed herself a glass of milk and put the next batch in the toaster oven. “You take them to your neighbor?”

  “Yeah.” I make a face. “It was weird.”

  “It was nice,” Steph corrects me. She picks up a cookie from the plate and holds it out to me. “You want?”

  I dr
op down next to her and take the cookie. I remember the last time I made them. You were on my sofa, stretched out, your feet over the end, saying you always wanted a woman who could cook, and I was telling you how sexist that was, that I wanted a man who could cook, and you laughed and said, “Done.” It made me happy, you saying that.

  I look at Steph and sigh. “I’m worried.”

  She nods and sucks her lip. A tear rolls down her face. “Fuck,” she says, wiping it away. “I told myself I’m not crying, not in front of you.”

  “You can cry.”

  “I care about him too, you know?”

  I hug her. “Thanks. All we can do is wait. Maybe he’s okay.”

  Steph sniffs and then curls up on her side with her thick comforter and closes her eyes. I do not close my eyes. My brain is spinning. I’m thinking about Dave Johnson and your phone being turned on and those trolls and how I’m going to be a basket case tomorrow and I should sleep so I don’t lose it and also how nice my best friend’s feet feel on my leg. Sometimes what you need isn’t always what you ask for, and it takes a good friend to know that.

  8:00 AM Monday, the human flamingo

  Josh is outside. He’s picking me up in his old blue Toyota. When I run out the back door, I pause. It’s colder than I expected, and I think about going back in, because all I’m wearing is a T-shirt, my pink shorts, and my black hoodie that matches your black hoodie. But Josh is waiting, and it’ll warm up throughout the day—it is June, after all.

  I jump into the passenger seat, my running shoes bashing against the empty caffeine drinks. In his car, the heat is hissing. He takes off.

  I’ve never been in his front seat. This is where you sit. Normally, I sit in the back, next to his smelly workout clothes, my knees crammed into my chest, and I watch you, slouching like a paper bag with the top folded down so your head doesn’t hit the roof.

  Your absence screams in this car.

  We head down the highway. It’s search day. Holy crap. It’s real.

  I gaze along the side of the road for any sign of you. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Feet?

  I spot a black garbage bag filled with something, and it makes me think about the last time you let me drive your truck. I swerved on the highway because of a full garbage bag and you said I should have driven straight over it. Not worth hitting a car. But I said, “What if it’s got a dog in it?”

  You repeated, “Dog?” Like that was just crazy.

  But I’ve heard people do that. They put the dogs they don’t want in garbage bags and toss them out of their car on the highway, so I always think of that when I see a garbage bag with something in it. You shook your head, laughing, and said I was being dramatic.

  Maybe this is dramatic of me, but what if someone put you in a garbage bag and threw you on the side of the road? You could be in that garbage bag we just passed. After I told you about the dog thing, you said you’d never look at a garbage bag the same way.

  If you don’t show up, I’m not going to look at anything the same way.

  The Matheson Trail parking lot is blocked off with yellow tape this morning. Josh parks on the side of the road. We step over the tape. I’m worried, like why is this here now? It wasn’t here last night. Did they find something?

  A search and rescue vehicle is parked inside, along with two men wearing red jackets with SAR on the back. One of them is old and grizzled, and the other is around our age, tall, good-looking. We walk through the parking lot and they watch us. I’m worried they’re going to stop us. I need to know if the whistler took my backpack.

  Josh calls out, “We can go on the trail, right?”

  The old guy calls back, “Go for it.”

  “We meet here at nine?”

  “You bet,” he says.

  Josh waves and we head down Matheson Trail. I guess they’re just blocking off the parking lot on account of it being the place everyone’s meeting.

  When we get to our spot, Josh strides right past it. You never told him? I told Steph. Not that it wasn’t special, but that’s how girls are; we talk.

  “It’s here,” I say. “This is where we always go.”

  He stops. There’s this flash in his eyes, like TMI. Maybe he thinks it’s gross to come to our spot, I don’t know. Did you ever notice how he looks away every time we kiss? It must be hard being around us all the time when he has no one. When you get home, let’s start Project Girlfriend for Josh. If he wasn’t so shy, he could get anyone.

  “There’s no trail,” he says.

  “It’s hidden.”

  That whistler guy, who may or may not be a killer, found it. I made a noise, but still, it was like he knew exactly where to go. Did he follow you here?

  I duck under Saber and hurry toward the muddy bank. I look over the edge. My backpack is resting on the dirt, a few feet from the edge of the river.

  “It’s here!” I jump off the bank and pick it up. Something in the water catches my eye. It’s long and dark and floating just under the surface.

  I scream.

  Josh runs up. “What?”

  It’s a log. For god’s sake. Josh’s face is white. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just seeing things.”

  “What are all those prints?” he says.

  A bunch of shoeprints huddle around where I’m standing. “These? I guess they’re mine from last night.”

  “What about that one?” He points to one about twenty feet away. “It’s different. Bigger at the front.”

  I didn’t go over there.

  There’s a single half print, just the front of a shoe. Nothing around it. Which is weird. My shoeprints have made a mess in the sand. But the lonely print is set apart, and there’s just one of them. A one-legged man. A human flamingo.

  Could it be yours?

  If you were pushed, you’d land with one foot and then the momentum would carry you forward into the cold, churning water.

  I see Johnson shoving you. Your foot landing. Your body flying forward into the rushing water. Your arms reaching out to stop yourself. And then landing with a splash, the current dragging you away, pulling you toward the rapids.

  I imagine you in the water and my own hand diving after you. For some reason, my arm is very long. My fingers tighten around your cold wrist. I try to pull you back, but I can’t. The river is too strong.

  “We should tell the detective.” Josh slides down the bank, careful to go around the prints, even mine.

  I blink, coming back to reality. Good god. “It can’t be his,” I say. “That print’s too small.”

  “It’s bigger at the front.” Josh touches the edge of the print.

  “Not as big as Chris’s shoe,” I say. “It’s barely bigger than mine.”

  “It’s not a complete print.”

  “Maybe it’s from a fly fisherman. Or one of those guys cutting weeds. Any one of them could have left it.”

  Josh stares at it. “I think we should tell the detective.”

  “Fine.”

  He makes the call. The detective says he’ll be here in twenty minutes. We sit down on the grass and wait. The river is flowing faster than normal. There’s been more melt-off this year.

  A high-pitched caw comes from behind. I turn to look. It’s Little Man. He’s cocking his head to one side. I caw back.

  Josh looks. “Oh!” He jerks in surprise.

  Little Man flutters toward the bush.

  “Don’t startle him. His mom and dad are probably around, watching. If they think he’s in danger, they’ll dive at us.” I make another quiet caw. Little Man hobbles back. “You remember me, Little Man?”

  “Um, do you know this crow?” Josh asks.

  “I know his name, don’t I?”

  He turns up the side of his mouth, attempting a smile. “He’s so small.”

  “He’s a fledgling,” I say. “The parents move them to different spots every night until they can fly. It keeps them safe.”

  Little Man hops closer. Blinks up at Josh. Cocks hi
s head.

  “He likes you,” I say.

  “He’s beautiful,” Josh whispers.

  “Crows are one of the only birds that recognize human faces. If you get on the bad side of one of them, they’ll hunt you down. But if you get on the good side”—I click my tongue—“they’ll be your friend for life.”

  Josh gives me this strange look like he’s trying to figure me out. Guess he doesn’t know I’m a nature nerd. You’re always surprised by what I know too.

  “Did Chris tell you I’m going to apply for a program at UW to study conservation?”

  “No way, really?” He sounds surprised. Maybe he doesn’t believe me.

  I like talking about the program, but will I do it? Sometimes I worry I won’t.

  We sit there for a while longer, and then we hear fast footsteps on the trail. Very different from the guy I heard last night. “Hello?” The detective’s accent makes it more like “Hollo.”

  I’d feel so much better if I knew who the whistler was.

  “We’re over here,” Josh calls.

  We stand up and Little Man hops into the bush.

  The detective moves into the clearing. He’s wearing a big police rain jacket. I glance at the sky—looks like it’s going to rain. Which is great because I’m just wearing a hoodie and my pink shorts. He claps me on the back. “You did a good job. Telling the media what you did. We got more resources now.”

  So it took a seventeen-year-old to do that? “No problem.”

  He gazes around our little clearing. “This is the spot where you and Chris like to come?”

  I nod and look away, embarrassed. It feels odd showing it to an adult, like, Yep, we did it, right there.

  “Where’s the print?” he says.

  I point down and he jumps off the bank. “And those?” He points at my mess of scared prints by the river.

  “That’s where I hid last night, when that guy was looking for me.”

  “You didn’t go over by the other print?”

  I shake my head. He bends down, takes a look.

  “The print’s too small to be his,” I say. “He has a size eleven foot.”

  “I’ll get someone to take measurements, maybe we can make a mold.” He looks up at the darkening sky. “If we’re lucky, before the rain.” He sighs. “Let’s just hope it’s not a match.”