The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle

by Jennifer McMahon

  “Which brother?”

  The youngest one, maybe. The one she was close to. Can’t think of his name.

  “Nicky?”

  Yeah, Nicky. Some friend of Nicky’s. Didn’t he have some friend Del was close to? An older guy? Lived up at that commune. He’s the one who gave her the star.

  15

  June 16, 1971

  THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL was a field day—kickball, a watermelon seed–spitting contest, a three-legged race. The recorder band played a concert they’d been practicing for all year. And all the graduating fifth graders would get a diploma—even Artie Paris would be handed a paper and pushed on to junior high at last.

  The back soccer field was a wide-open space behind the playground, and it was here that all the kids from Number 5 Elementary were gathered. We spent the morning playing games, and around eleven, the principal started grilling the hamburgers and hot dogs.

  After a long and chaotic lunch, Miss Johnstone announced that it was time for the fifth grade scavenger hunt. We were each given a list of things to find and clues telling where we might find some of the more obscure items. Some of the objects were simple: a dime-sized stone, a buttercup. Others were things that had been planted by the teachers: Find and write down the poem in the trees. Somewhere around the storage shed there is a picture of a famous man. Tell us who he is and what he did.

  I was looking at the picture, writing President Abraham Lincoln, telling how he freed the slaves then got shot in a theater by a man called John Wilkes Booth, when Ellie came up behind me, breathless from running.

  “They’ve got the Potato Girl and Mute Mike down by the river. Come on,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me along behind her.

  To the teachers, we must have looked like two playful, innocent girls on a scavenger hunt, running happily across the soccer field. We were moving fast and Ellie was laughing, her white-blond hair streaming behind her, her pretty yellow dress flapping around her unscathed knees. Isn’t it nice that weird Kate has finally made some friends, the teachers might have said to one another. Isn’t it nice how well she’s fitting in?

  Beyond the soccer field lay a swath of tall grass, which gave way to bamboo-like reeds a little way in. I had heard that if you knew where to look in the shoulder-high grass, you could find the hidden opening that was the beginning of a path. This path would lead you through the grass, reeds, and wildflowers down to the river. It was here that kids snuck away during recess to shoot off caps or even make out (so the rumors went). Ellie seemed to know the way and did not hesitate before diving into a slight parting of the reeds, dragging me in tow. The damp grass soaked my jeans and Ellie’s fingers dug into my palm as she pulled me toward the sound of running water and teasing voices.

  Bloodroot River was not much of a river at all. About the only fish in it were minnows, and during the spring floods you could walk across it and get wet only up to your knees.

  When we came into the clearing on the bank of the river, I saw that about a dozen kids were gathered there, standing in a rough semi-circle, looking down and singing Potato Girl rhymes.

  When Ellie and I moved into the circle, she still held my hand. I imagine this is what Del first noticed when she looked up at me.

  Del was lying on her back in the sand, propped up on her elbows. Artie Paris stood at her feet and had Mute Mike’s arms pinned. Artie held the taller boy as if he were some gangly puppet.

  One potato, two potato, three potato, four!

  We don’t want this rotten potato ’round us anymore!

  The kids were chanting, shouting each word down at Del. A few boys spat on her, and Fat Tommy kicked Del in the ribs.

  One potato, two potato, three potato, four!

  Del Griswold is a trashy, potato-eating bore!

  Del looked relieved to see me.

  “Desert Rose,” she mumbled. Her lip was bleeding. I thought maybe she bit it in the fall. Or maybe someone clocked her one. It was hard to say. The one thing that was clear was that Del was in trouble and it looked like I might be her only chance. Her deputy had arrived.

  The dozen or so kids gathered around began throwing pebbles down at her; tiny stones they’d stuffed in their pockets. The stones pinged off her, made her twitch like she was being stung.

  I KNOW THAT I SHOULD HAVE GONE to Del’s side, hoisted her up from the dirt, snarled a warning to Artie. I should have done what a good deputy would have: backed my sheriff up, right up until the end.

  In college, I read in a sociology textbook about a sort of mob mentality. I guess that is the closest I have to an excuse for myself. I got swept away with the feeling that I was part of the group, and in those few confused moments, that felt more real, more exciting to me than my friendship with Del.

  I was ten, for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t everyone make mistakes like that back then? Have moments of weakness, cruelty born of fear?

  Most people, probably. But I suspect most people don’t spend the rest of their lives reliving those moments, playing the if-only game: if only I had picked Del up out of the dirt that day, if only I’d been brave and true, as she would have been for me, then she might not have been killed.

  But that’s not what happened.

  ONE POTATO, two potato, three potato, four!

  Your daddy is your brother and your mother is a whore!

  It was a rhyme I knew well, had heard hundreds of times, but had never joined in on. That day, with Del in the dirt at my feet and Ellie’s hand in mine, part of the pack, I sang along.

  Del continued to study me, her pleading face cracking into a twisted, jack-o’-lantern smile, showing her chipped tooth. Then, down in the dirt, pelted by stones, she began to laugh. She laughed as if she could not stop, and her laughter made the crowd around her all the more angry. I was enraged.

  “Shut up!” I yelled. “Just shut the hell up!”

  The rocks were getting bigger. She flinched each time one hit her, but made no move to escape. She rolled back and forth in the dirt, cackling. Ellie leaned down to get a rock and I did, too. The stone I held was smooth and dark, the size and shape of an egg. It fit perfectly in my palm.

  “I got somethin’ for you, Del,” Artie sang, as he shoved Mute Mike away with disgust. The kids stopped throwing rocks and waited to see what would happen next. We all watched in silence as Artie walked over to the edge of the river, where he picked up what looked like a large brown stone. He pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and cut into the object, which I quickly realized was a potato, slicing the end off and carrying the piece over to Del.

  “Open up wide, Potato Girl.”

  Del kept her jaw clamped shut, but Artie pried her teeth apart and shoved the piece in.

  “Have some more, Delores,” he said, straddling her. He pushed another hunk of raw potato into her mouth and she gagged, started to choke.

  “Hey Mute Mike, did you know your wife has a secret?” asked Artie, as he tossed the rest of the potato away and wiped his hands on his thighs. He remained in position, straddling Del, pinning her under his weight. Mike was kneeling in the dirt beside them, holding the same position he’d been in since Artie let him go. Del twisted her head, spat out bits of potato. Then she began her mad, grinning laughter again.

  “Why don’t you show us your tattoo, Del?” Artie asked.

  The smile disappeared from Del’s face and she fell silent. She turned her gaze to me again, but now her eyes glared.

  “Traitors get shot in the back,” she hissed.

  “What?” Artie asked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who said you could talk, Potato Bitch?”

  Del began to fight then, tried to wrestle Artie off, twisting and bucking, but he held fast. I saw that she was wearing the silver star pinned to her chest, but it would take more than that to protect her. So much for talismans.

  “Who wants to see the Potato Girl’s tattoo?” Artie called out. “A quarter a look. Come on. Step right up. Where’s that tattoo at, anyway, Delores? Is it on your
butt?” At this, he lifted off her, flipped her body over, and jerked down her pants. Her underwear was covered with faded flowers. The elastic had sprung and the panties were loose and clown-like. Artie jerked them down, exposing her bare ass.

  “Nothing here,” he bellowed.

  But there was something there: both buttocks were bruised brown and yellow, roughly in the shape of hand prints. Ellie let out a little gasp and let go of my hand.

  “Jesus, who’s been at you, girl?” Artie asked.

  Seeing Del like that was more injustice than Mute Mike could bear. He was skinny, but tall, and when he dove at Artie, no one expected it.

  Mike and Artie rolled around on the riverbank that afternoon, stirring up sand, gasping and grunting like neither one of them knew how to speak. Artie proceeded to beat the shit out of Mute Mike. It was the worst fight I’ve ever seen—worse than any of the scuffles in the state hospital years later, or the boxing matches my husband dragged me to when we were dating. I watched that day as Mike’s nose was broken and his left arm was pulled from its socket, where it hung like a loose and useless wing. But Mike fought on, no doubt fueled by his love for the Potato Girl, his need to honor her in some public way. Mike was too busy getting whipped to notice Del as she rose from her place on the ground and backed away, slowly at first, then turned and ran. The other kids, distracted by the fight, yelling, “Kick his ass, Artie,” and “Mutilate Mute Mike!” didn’t seem to notice Del leaving. She ran not back toward the safety of the soccer field and teachers, but along the river, toward town. And without much thought, I took off running right behind her, carrying my stone. In the commotion of the boys’ fight, no one seemed to notice us. On we ran.

  Del was always faster than me and although I tried, I could not gain any ground, and, in truth, I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I’d caught up. The rock in my hand said that I wasn’t chasing her to apologize.

  There was no playful Catch me if you can called back to me. There was only the sound of our footsteps pounding over dirt and rocks, our own heartbeats deafening in our ears. I followed her nearly a mile to the bridge on Railroad Street, then I watched her turn into Mr. Deluca’s hayfield and run faster still, heading home.

  In my last picture of Del alive, she’s running through that field, her yellow cowgirl shirt billowing behind her, in some ways, a ghost already.

  16

  November 17, 2002

  I STOPPED AT A PAY PHONE off the highway to call home at just after six. The name on my bandaged chest burned like a hundred bee stings. I had been hurrying back to New Canaan, hoping to beat the snow that the deejays kept warning about on the radio. They reported that it had started to snow in southern Vermont and the storm was working its way up. It was going to be a messy night. The forecasts reminded me of what Ellie had said about people blaming bad weather on the Potato Girl. Maybe this was Del’s storm coming.

  “Hi, Raven. Just me checking in. I’m on my way back.”

  “Kate! It’s good you called. There’s been an accident.”

  “Mom?”

  “No, no, not Jean. She woke up just after you left and has been in her studio painting all afternoon. No more redecorating. She’s been very calm. It’s Nicky. He wrecked his truck earlier this afternoon. It happened just after you left. Right by the waterfall.

  “I remembered the chimes on Jim’s scanner.

  “Jesus, is he all right?” I held my breath, fearing the worst.

  “It was a bad accident, but I guess he’s going to be okay. He has a broken ankle. Some cuts and bruises. They’re releasing him from the hospital. He’s been calling every twenty minutes to see if you’re back yet. The phone’s been driving me crazy, ringing off the hook. He was hoping you would pick him up. He said he needs to see you.” Her voice was childishly sarcastic as she spoke this last line.

  “Well, if you’re still okay with my mother I’ll swing by the hospital and pick him up.”

  “I’m fine, Kate. I’m still waiting for Opal. She took off on her bike just before I came to sit with Jean. She’s supposed to meet me here for supper. I made ratatouille. We’ll save some for you and Nicky.”

  THE ER NURSE went over Nicky’s condition with me, telling me they hadn’t ruled out a concussion and giving me a list of warning signs. When I told her I was an RN, she seemed relieved.

  “Then you know he needs to be watched overnight.”

  “He can come stay with my mother and me. We’ll take care of him.”

  She led me into Trauma Room 3, where Nicky was resting on a gurney. There was a cast on his left foot. His face was cut and swollen. He had seven stitches over his left eye and two in his left earlobe. He smiled when he saw me.

  “Hiya, Desert Rose. Looks worse than it is. I really don’t feel all that bad.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you would, with all the pain meds you’re on. What happened, Nicky?”

  “Tell you what, you take me outta here and we’ll talk in the car. My place isn’t all that far if we take the back roads.”

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head. “You’re coming to my mother’s. You’re in no shape to be by yourself. In the morning, we’ll swing by your place and pick up a few things. You’ll stay with us as long as you need to.”

  “Well, Nurse Kate, I guess I’m in good hands. I woulda had the accident sooner if I’d known it meant I got to shack up with you.”

  He grinned up at me from the gurney he was stretched out on.

  The nurse came back in and had Nicky sign his release forms. His gun was being held by one of the cops on duty at the ER, and she told us how to get it back from him. An aide wheeled Nicky out to the car while I carried his crutches and pain medication. I also took charge of the gun, telling him it was out of the question with his pain meds.

  “As I recall, you’re a hell of shot,” he said. “I could be in danger.”

  I tucked the gun into the pocket of my parka after Nicky showed me that the safety was on.

  Nicky managed to maneuver himself into the front seat and get his seatbelt on. The first thing he asked me for when we pulled out was a cigarette.

  “I don’t have any. We can stop on the way and pick some up.”

  “A bottle of booze, too, maybe. I could use a drink.”

  “Not with the narcotics, Nicky. No booze. You’re loopy enough. Now are you going to tell me what happened?”

  He was quiet a second.

  “Well?” I asked, impatient.

  “All right. I’ll tell you. You’re probably about the only one who might believe me, what with all the weird shit you’ve been through lately. I told the cops I swerved to avoid a dog in the road, but that wasn’t how it was, Kate. I was driving home from your place this afternoon, right? And I was thinking things over, kinda lost in my own thoughts. Thinking about you mostly. About last night.” He reached out, put a hand on my thigh, and squeezed. Then he began running his fingers slowly up my leg until I clamped down with my own hand, stopping him.

  “So what happened next?” I asked.

  He took his hand away, looked out the windshield into the black night.

  “Then I got to the turn by the river, right where the waterfall is, you know?”

  I nodded, thinking of the postcard of the old waterwheel Ellie had had in her hands earlier. The place Nicky described was the spot in the photograph.

  “And damned if this little girl doesn’t run out into the road. She ran right in front of the truck, Kate. Fast as a fucking coyote. I jerked the wheel hard to the right. Just instinct. The next thing I know, the truck’s headed down the embankment and I’m rolling. I guess I blacked out or something. When I came to, the truck was right side up in the middle of the river beside the waterfall. Thank God it’s not much of a river, the water only came up to the top of the wheels. The windshield was shattered, it seemed like there was glass and blood everywhere. I wiped the blood out of my eyes and looked out the side window and there she was, just standing there at the top of the bank, laughing. It
was Del. It was my fucking little sister. I blacked out again and the next thing I knew, Jim Haskaway and a couple of other firefighters were pulling me out, strapping me down on a board.”

  I didn’t say anything, just gripped the wheel tighter and stared out into the dark road ahead of us. It began to snow.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Nicky continued. “You’re thinking I imagined it. Hallucinated. But damn it, Kate, it was Del standing there looking down at me just as sure as you’re beside me right now. It was Del.”

  The truth was, I believed him, but found it more comfortable to stay in the well-rehearsed role of skeptic. It made the whole thing a little less terrifying.

  “And you hadn’t been drinking?”

  “Christ, Kate! I’d just left your house. I was stone-cold sober! All I had in my belly was the tuna sandwich and glass of milk you’d given me.”

  It was snowing harder and driving was like captaining a spaceship moving at warp speed through the stars. I slowed down to a crawl, afraid I’d lose sense of where the road was.

  “I have one more question,” I told him.

  “Fire away.”

  “Do you know who Opal’s father is?”

  I took my eyes off the snowy landscape in front of me and focused on Nicky for a few seconds. He began moving around like he was trying to get comfortable, but wasn’t having much success.

  “I know. Raven told me. She told me at Daddy’s viewing, of all places. I think she came to the funeral home just to see for herself—to make sure he was really gone. Hell, probably half the people in that room came for the very same reason. My father was no saint. He hurt a lot of people in his day—me and Del included. He used to treat us worse than dogs when he’d been drinking. And sometimes at night, I’d hear him go into Del’s room. I knew what he was up to. But Del never said a word, and neither did I. So when Raven told me what he’d done to her, I wasn’t all that surprised.