Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “Everything okay?”

  “Not sure.”

  I pick up speed through the center of town when I see something that jars me. I slow the van down and watch as four college students walk over the crosswalk, their hands moving rapidly in quick bursts of energy: American Sign Language! It gets me thinking, and my brain starts to process the myriad thoughts running through my head. I wonder if that Afghani man I encountered on Blueberry Hill murdered those two kids. He seemed radical enough to commit such a crime. Something in my gut tells me that he lacks the calm temperament to bury and stone a person to death. Or execute a crop circle after killing that boy. I could be wrong. I probably am wrong. But I think I’ve figured out a way to learn more about these murders, thanks to these deaf students walking across the street.

  “Why the hell you slowing down, son? There’s a line of cars behind you beeping up a storm.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You act like you’ve never seen a bunch of deaf kids before.”

  “It got me thinking about something.”

  “Care to divulge?”

  “Not really.” I step on the gas.

  “You’re a strange fellow, Iggy.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Despite all your quirks, you’re kind of growing on me.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  “Don’t ever guess, son, when you can use your brain. It’s always best to use inductive and deductive reason like Sherlock Holmes did.”

  “I’ll certainly remember that the next time I’m solving a murder.”

  “One never knows, Iggy.”

  I drop him off at his house and speed off before he can say good-bye or offer up any more of his long-winded theories. I glance in the rearview mirror and watch as he clutches his collection of comic books and hobbles up the steps.

  * * *

  My father is outside and carrying some logs when I pull up to the cabin. In his condition, I know he shouldn’t be exerting himself too strenuously. I go over and help him. He says not a word to me as we carry the logs back and forth from the yard and to the side of the house. Despite being exhausted, I continue to work until we have a healthy stack of wood piled high for the winter. But will he make it that long?

  He collapses into his recliner once we’re inside and asks if I’ll make him some herbal tea. I can barely contain my excitement at what I’ve uncovered. A sense of empowerment sweeps over me as I pour boiling water over the green tea bag. I hand him the cup, grab my cell phone, and settle onto the couch.

  It amazes me that I didn’t think of it before. I turn on my phone and find the video I recorded in that darkened cornfield. It’s been waiting all this time to be examined and interpreted. I press play and begin to watch as the kids drink and smoke pot at the scene of the crime. The fire burns between them, providing just enough light to reveal their youthful faces.

  I replay the video over and over, trying to accustom myself to everything that occurred. At one point during the party, Stefania stands in front of the fire, bottle in hand, and speaks to the others. It’s mesmerizing to watch her in action, especially with her gorgeous face lit up by the flames. I wonder what she’s saying to those other kids or whether she’s merely rambling on in drunken fashion.

  I’m not sure how I had the wherewithal to zoom in on them, but I’m glad I did. There’s no sound because I was too far away, but that’s beside the point. Their conversation would not have been picked up anyway. After ten minutes of watching the video, I shut off my phone and lie back on the couch. I feel dizzy, but confident, and completely ready for what I need to do come morning.

  The muscles in my arm ache from carrying all that firewood. I haven’t done that much exercise since I was in the army, when I used to jog five miles a day and do push-ups and sit-ups. Back when I could perform medical tasks tirelessly and for long periods of time.

  I need to have one last conversation before I lay my head down and fall asleep. I grab my phone and make my way into the bedroom. Calling Dalton is a pretty rotten thing to do, but I need to stay on his good side if I’m to learn the truth about these matters. And if that means Lucy Abbott must sweet-talk him every so often, then so be it. I punch his number into my phone, and he picks up after the third ring.

  “Lucy?”

  “Congrats, Dalton. I heard you’ve arrested a suspect. Tell me it’s true.”

  “How did you find out so soon?” He sounds like he’s been drinking.

  “My cousin told me. So it’s true?”

  “Nothing’s certain yet, but it looks like we have a strong case against this guy.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty, I thought.”

  “He’s not even a citizen. What we should really do is treat him as if he’s a foreign enemy.”

  “Is he talking?”

  Dalton laughs. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Do I hear a trace of doubt creeping into his voice? “You don’t sound overly confident.”

  “We found a knife in his trunk with dried blood on it. The state police lab is testing it right now to see if the blood belongs to the dead boy.”

  “Case closed if it does, right?”

  “Proceed with caution is about the best advice an old detective ever gave me,” he says. “Hey, it was nice seeing you the other day.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Once these murders get cleared up, maybe you can come back to town and pay us a visit.”

  “Who knows, Dalton, you might be seeing me sooner than you think.”

  “If only I could be so lucky.”

  But you are.

  I hang up the phone and return to the couch. Upon looking up, I notice that my father has fallen asleep with a doobie in hand. I stick the joint in the ashtray before he burns the cabin down. The vision of him consumed in a pyre of his own making passes through my mind. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for him to go out in a blaze of glory. There’s certainly worse ways to die, and cancer is at the top of most people’s list. As is being buried up to your neck and watching as the stones start to fly.

  27

  I CAN BARELY LOOK AT STEFANIA THIS MORNING WHEN SHE BRINGS BACK the first ruined plate of scrambled eggs. I left them on the flattop too long so that brown spots appeared through and through. She cusses me out before flinging the plate across the room. It smashes against the far wall and all the food spills off the plate, making a mess everywhere, which I’ll later be forced to clean up. Instead of leaving, she approaches me with two fists clenched by her side. Her lips are a fierce two-inch slit of nubile pinkness. For a brief second I fear she’s going to strike me. With or without Yanni here to run things, this vessel called The Galaxy is a rudderless shipwreck waiting to capsize.

  Stefania stands in my way, blocking my path to the refrigerator. When I move to the side, she moves along with me. She’s many inches taller than me and intimidating for a fifteen-year-old girl. When she stares down, it’s as if she really wants to pummel me into submission.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I need to scramble more eggs for that order. So if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Screw the eggs. You’re the worst cook I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say. “Now I really need to get back to work.”

  “I get the feeling you’re screwing these orders up on purpose, Iggy. No one can be that dumb.”

  “Why would I do that? I need this job.”

  “You tell me, jerk-off.”

  “Swear to God I’m doing my best.”

  “Are you trying to ruin my grandfather’s diner on purpose?” She puts her face close to mine.

  “No! How could you even think that?”

  “There’s something weird about you, Iggy, if that’s even your real name. How is it you suddenly appear out of nowhere, acting all chill and offering me weed and in need of a job?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.
”

  “Brynn says you’re driving her parents around town and helping them run errands. What’s that all about?”

  “Earning some extra cash on the side.”

  “Bull! I might just tell Dalton about all the joints you’ve been smoking out back. And that you offered me some.”

  “You gonna narc on me? Especially after I shared my weed with you?”

  “No, I’m going to narc on you for trying to ruin my papou’s diner.”

  I work the rest of my shift in relative silence, careful to stay out of Stefania’s way. Why is she suddenly being so mean to me? I need to hold my tongue for fear of being uncovered. What I’d really like to do is drag that girl out back and teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget. It’s obvious that Nadia has lost control of her daughter. Or maybe she never asserted control over her in the first place. I wonder if Nadia has any idea how badly she behaves when she’s not around.

  Once the lunch rush is over, and I’ve finished scrubbing the kitchen clean, I grab the envelope of cash that Yanni has left for me and head out. Dalton is sitting in his police car with the engine running when I emerge. It’d be rude to walk past him without saying hello. For some strange reason, I get the distinct impression that he’s been waiting all this time for me to show up.

  “Hey,” I say, looking into his window.

  “Get in the back, Iggy.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “We need to talk.”

  I open the door and sit nervously in the backseat while Dalton finishes typing something into his computer. A police report? Summons? All of this fresh animosity worries me.

  “You a junkie?”

  I laugh. “Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “Hell, no, I’m no junkie.”

  “Stef said she saw you smoking pot by the Dumpster and that you offered her some. Is that true?”

  “Just the part about me smoking by the Dumpster. Helps calm my nerves after dealing with Yanni all morning.”

  “Just because we had a few beers the other night doesn’t make us friends.”

  “I know that. I just figured you were being nice to me.”

  “You think I’m going to look the other way when you’re doing something illegal?”

  “I thought weed was legal in Maine.”

  He sighs impatiently. “The point is, just because I’m a nice guy doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. I’m not going to let you get away with anything just because you and I had a few beers. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Better not hear you’re offering weed to minors or else you’ll regret it. Smoke that shit at home, because if I catch you with it here I’m going to bust your ass.”

  I nod.

  He sits staring at me in the rearview for longer than I’d like. “She called last night.”

  “Who called?”

  “Lucy. Said she might consider coming back now that we’ve got a suspect.”

  “That’s great news, Detective. But are you sure you got the right guy?”

  He shakes his head in disgust. “Of course I have the right guy.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “Didn’t you watch the news? We got an anonymous call, and when we got there we found him pushing his female cousin around. She works at the Afghani grocery and was one of the two girls attacked in Robinson Woods.”

  “So you believe he was the one who attacked Stefania and her friend, and they were too afraid to finger him?” I say.

  “Exactly. When we searched his car we found the knife in his trunk with the victim’s blood on it. And we also found some boots we’re testing for cornstalk residue.”

  “Maybe someone planted the knife on him.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Iggy?” he shouts angrily. “Maybe you should try working on your damn cooking skills before you start lecturing me on police work. Now get out of my car.”

  I jump out and head toward my van parked in the back lot. But before I can make my way to it, Stefania stands in my path, blocking me from reaching it. Her wiry arms are crossed and she’s smiling so sweetly that it worries me. This can only be bad news. She holds her hand out as if to shake. I take it and let my palm go limp in hers.

  “I’m really sorry about what I said to you in there, Iggy. I was just upset.”

  “Why’d you tell Dalton I was smoking pot?”

  “Can never be too careful in this town. Wanted to see if you were one of those perverts who gives kids weed and then molests them.”

  “You think I’d do something like that?”

  “Like, duh! Two of my classmates are dead and I was just attacked in Robinson Woods. Think I want to end up like them?”

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone and let me live my life,” I say.

  “You and Dalton seem pretty tight.”

  I continue toward the van but she runs out in front of me.

  “Seems weird considering that no one has ever seen you in town before. How long have you two been friends?”

  “What do you know about friendship? You’re just a kid.”

  “I know a lot more about friendship than you think,” she says, tugging down on her friendship earring. “And I also know most everything that goes on in this town.”

  “Enough to ruin a guy like me.” I walk past her.

  “I said I’m sorry, Iggy,” she says, grabbing my elbow.

  “Empty words.”

  “I want to make it up to you. Remember that party I told you about? Well, a few of us are getting together tonight. Will you swing by and join us?”

  “Why should I do that after what you told Dalton?”

  “I’ve already apologized. What more do you want from me?”

  “To leave me alone.”

  “I’d hate to make up some lame story about how you tried to cop a feel from me in the kitchen. Who do you think they’re going to believe?”

  I turn and glare at her. “You wouldn’t?”

  “Oh, I most certainly would,” she says. “Come on, dude. We just want to have a little fun. I bet you liked to party back in the day.”

  “Still do.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really,” she says, smiling. “Oh, and Iggy?”

  “What?”

  “Bring a bottle of booze with you. And a bag of that killer weed too.”

  She tells me where to meet her before I jump in the van and pull away. When I look in the rearview mirror, I see Stefania standing in the middle of the parking lot with her wiry arms crossed and a big smile over her face.

  * * *

  These deaf students suddenly appear everywhere in town, walking around and gesturing with their hands. Is it because I’m only now noticing them? The school has always been like an invisible beacon up on that hill, but when I was a kid most of the students kept to themselves and hardly ever ventured into town. There was nothing much for them to do down here except mingle with townsfolk and be ignored. Different times, I suppose. The hearing impaired back then were about as welcome in Fawn Grove as a beauty queen from Manhattan. It’s nice to know that some things in this town have changed for the better. Everything being equal, I’d like to think that a person such as Lucy Abbott would be welcomed back with open arms.

  I walk into the coffee shop and wave to my two old classmates. Of course they have no idea who I am, but they wave back in a friendly manner, as if I’m one of their regulars. Surprisingly, the place is empty. But I’m sure that will soon change.

  After ordering a coffee and croissant, I sit in the corner thinking about how I’ll pose my question. Thirty minutes pass in silence before three students from Dunham College walk in and sit by the window. Two girls and a guy. To my untrained eyes, it looks as if they’re swatting flies out of their faces. Their hands move so rapidly from one sign to the next that it boggles the mind that they can understand
one another. Barb walks over and takes their order, and I hear their overly strained voices. They speak in that strange manner of deaf people—loud and with a noticeable lisp.

  Approaching these students will require tact and diplomacy. I considered going directly to the college but didn’t think it a good idea in my current disguise. There’s no way they’d take a guy like Iggy seriously. Not to mention that I didn’t want to get any college officials involved in the case, which could further complicate matters. I need to do this the right way, quietly and under the radar.

  After a few nerve-racking minutes, I head over to their table. The students freeze when they see me approaching. It’s not quite a look of fear in their eyes as it is the cautionary gaze one gives another when an outsider tries to infiltrate the tribe. As a person who’s lived most of her life as an outsider, I know this feeling all too well. It’s a circling-the-wagons mentality. I’m an interloper into the exclusionary world of the hearing impaired, and I’m definitely not welcome.

  The students stare up at me, waiting to see what I have to say. I stand awkwardly, wondering how to broach the subject. I have no knowledge of sign language and can only hope that one of them reads lips.

  “Can anyone help me?” I say.

  The students glance at me before signing to one another. I have no idea what they’re saying and wait patiently until they’re through. It feels odd being the subject of their conversation and yet knowing nothing about what they’re saying. I’m not your average Fawn Grove citizen. When they look at me, they likely see a diminutive, doe-eyed gimp wearing a red do-rag, black-rimmed glasses, a Metallica concert T-shirt, and skull earrings.

  “What’s up?” the guy says in that muted way.

  “I was wondering if maybe you could help me with something,” I overarticulate.

  “With what?” he says, his eyes staring at me with a puzzled expression.

  “I’m assuming you read lips?”

  “You’re sharp.” He turns to the others and signs, and they laugh at my expense.

  “I was wondering if you could translate something for me. I’ll pay you.”

  “Depends on what it is and how much.”

  I pull out my phone and show him the video I took of the kids in the cornfield. It’s thirteen minutes and twenty-three seconds. He doesn’t hit the play button, but instead hands it back to me.