What You Don't Know

by JoAnn Chaney

  “A man said Mama was pretty today,” Gloria once said. This was at the dinner table, when she was eight years old. They’d just sat down, the three of them at the table and the old dog curled up at their feet, snout on his paws, waiting for crumbs to drop.

  “And what did your mother say to that?” Her father put his fork down so carefully it didn’t make a sound when it touched his plate. Her mother, sitting on the other side of the table, didn’t move. Didn’t look up from her plate, even though they were both staring at her, waiting for her to say something.

  “She didn’t say nothing,” Gloria said.

  Her father was a tall man. Thin and wiry. When he came into a room it felt like he sucked all the air out of it, all the life. He wasn’t at all handsome, with the dark hairs sprouting from his ears and the smattering of blackheads on his nose, he wasn’t even handsome in the wedding photo that hung in the dining room, but anyone would look plain standing beside her mother, who was spectacularly gorgeous in her white gown, although she wasn’t smiling. Gloria had always wondered how her parents had found each other, how her mother had ended up cooking in the kitchen of her husband’s restaurant and cleaning the dreary little brick house on Ninth Street when she looked like a queen, but she never asked, not until years later, and her mother didn’t have an answer, said she couldn’t remember how it’d all happened. Her father could be mean as a snake, but he had his moments, he could be kind, and there were times she’d see her parents happy together, laughing and holding hands, kissing each other, her father bringing his wife coffee in bed and rubbing her feet, but things could turn fast, oh, her father’s temper was quick, and unexpected.

  “‘She didn’t say anything,’” her mother said, correcting Gloria, her eyes not moving any higher than the mound of buttered peas on her plate. “That’s how you should say it.”

  “That man was right, you know,” her father said. He was staring at his wife, and there seemed to be heat in his gaze, hot and stifling. “Your mama’s so pretty, I might have to kill her before some other man steals her away.”

  And then he laughed.

  * * *

  All her life, Gloria wondered what it would be like to be so beautiful that it made men look hungry, like starving dogs panting over a bone. But they didn’t always look that way—sometimes they seemed angry when they saw her mother, as if her dark eyes and perfect face were purposely made to piss them off.

  But Gloria didn’t know what it was like to be beautiful, and she’d never know. She took after her father—tall and thin, plain-faced. When she was young, she’d overhear people say that she’d grow out of it, that ugly girls became lovely women, but that never happened with her; she was the same at forty as she was the day she was born. Her mother never said anything about it, but her father did.

  “I always liked the smart girls better than pretty ones,” he’d say, although they both knew it was a lie, because he liked nothing better than to stare at his wife; she was no dummy, but not a genius either. “You’ll be a good wife someday.”

  Not that her mother wasn’t a good wife, but she brought out something in her husband, something ugly and stupid and possessive, although no one except Gloria ever saw it. Like the time Gloria was ten, and her father was convinced that the butcher and his wife were having an affair, because she’d smiled as she’d ordered her roast for dinner, and even something as innocent as a smile was suspicious, and he’d asked her about it that night, accused her of being unfaithful, and then he’d pointed a gun at her face for three hours, one of the rifles he used for hunting elk in the fall. They’d been like that for a long time, her mother standing up against the kitchen counter, her father sitting at the table, the butt of the rifle nestled against the meat of his thigh, the TV droning on in the background and the beef in the oven. Her mother didn’t cry out when she saw the gun, didn’t seem at all surprised, and Gloria wondered if her mother had been waiting for that moment, if she’d spent her whole marriage sure her husband would kill her while dinner burned to a crisp.

  “Go to your room,” her mother had said, but Gloria had hid behind the couch in the living room instead, curled her knees up to her chest and listened, breathed in the dust bunnies and tried to keep from sneezing. She couldn’t make out everything her father was saying, but she was sure something bad was going to happen. Gloria was a girl, but she’d grown up fast, she’d had to, most girls do, and she’d seen how her father’s love for his wife bordered on obsession, that he treated her in the same way a greedy man treats his money, like he owned her, worshipped her. She needed to be captured, hidden away where no one else could see, like treasure in a vault. Or just destroyed.

  Gloria fell asleep behind the couch, listening for a gunshot that never came, and woke up when her mother was carrying her into the bathroom, whispering that she needed to relieve herself before she went to bed, so there wouldn’t be any accidents in the middle of the night. Her mother kept the bathroom light off, so there was only the glow coming from the hallway, yellow and comforting.

  “Why did Daddy do that?” she’d asked, swaying as she sat on the cold toilet seat, only half-awake and struggling to make sense of anything. Her mother was kneeling on the cold tile, waiting for Gloria to finish so she could help with her pants and put her to bed, and she didn’t look at all beautiful then, only tired and sad, and very old.

  “I don’t know,” her mother said. “I guess it’s because he loves me so much.”

  * * *

  When you get married the diner’s yours, her father had told her when she was young, and she’d go in and sit in a booth, one that was toward the back and out of the way, and a waitress would come by with a malted and fries for her, and she’d imagine how it would be to own all of it, how she’d make it better. She’d have the old tables replaced with nice new ones, and throw away the cheap plastic ferns that stood in all the corners. Put different things on the menu. Cakes, or pie. Gloria’s mother could cook anything except cake. It was the altitude, she complained. Denver sat a mile high, and that was too far up for a cake to rise, and hers were always sunken, like someone had come by and thrown a rock in the middle.

  But Gloria never had a boyfriend. There were no prom dates in high school, no Friday nights at the drive-in. Her mother tried to set her up with boys from the church, but those always fell through, and her father never said a word about it, but she knew he thought she was a lesbian. She knew because of the way he looked at her sometimes, and when, after high school, he pushed her into college. You need a way to support yourself, he’d said, but halfheartedly, not meeting her eye. Just in case.

  It was the summer after her first year in college—she was a history major—when she came home and worked at her father’s restaurant, waiting tables and smoking cigarettes out back, that she met Jacky.

  “Can I bum one off you?” he said, coming up from behind and making her jump, because she wasn’t supposed to be out there, her father didn’t know she smoked and there’d be hell to pay if he found out. Her father didn’t spend much time at the restaurant anymore—neither of her parents did, they mostly pottered around at home, busy with gardening and TV and whatever else—but she was still paranoid. “Left mine at home.”

  She pulled the pack from her apron pocket and passed it to him, more out of surprise than anything else. No one had spoken much to her since she’d started—she was the boss’s daughter, after all, and a stranger—and she wasn’t sure how to react to the friendly face.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  He stood beside her, leaning back against the green Dumpster, one sneaker propped up against the metal side. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something about his face that made her want to look at him more, something about the way he moved. He had a slip-slidey way about him, like a crab running on the beach, sidling along in the sand.

  “I’m Jacky,” he said. He didn’t hold his hand out for her to shake, which she liked. Too many p
eople had weak grips and sweaty palms, and she’d always want to wipe her hand on her skirt afterward but couldn’t, because they’d think she was rude. “I wash the dishes.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re Gloria, right?” he asked, peering at her sideways with his bright eyes. “One of the waitresses?”

  “Yeah.”

  If she were a different girl, she’d have something to say. She’d comment on his watch, or the weather, or the way it always smelled so bad out here, especially during the summer, no matter how much boiling water they poured on the concrete pad—something, dammit, anything to keep the words going. Or if she were beautiful, like her mother, she wouldn’t have to say much at all. He could look at her, and that would be enough. But she could only be herself, and Gloria had heard one of the girls at school say that ugly girls had to try harder with guys, and the girl had meant it as a joke but it was true. But Gloria couldn’t think of a thing to do, she wasn’t beautiful and she wasn’t clever, so they just stood beside each other, taking long inhales of their cigarettes and blowing clouds of smoke at the sky.

  Three days later, Jacky invited her on a date.

  “Why’d you ask me out?” she’d questioned. This was after the movie he’d taken her to, something about spaceships and aliens that she didn’t understand. You have to see the first two, Jacky had said, shushing her when she asked questions. He’d bought her a popcorn and a Coke, and the butter had been greasy on her hands. She’d thought about licking her fingers, but Jacky had been watching her, so she’d used a napkin instead.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he’d said. “I was surprised that a girl like you didn’t already have a boyfriend.”

  Her cheeks were hot.

  He took her out again the next weekend, to dinner at a nice restaurant, where it seemed like the entire staff stopped by the table to chat. She’d never met anyone like Jacky, who remembered everyone’s name even if they’d only met once three years before, who could recall details and dates and events everyone else had forgotten. And he was always asking questions—about a person’s work, their school, their family. People loved that, to talk about themselves. Later, she realized that Jacky saved information like a squirrel saves nuts for the winter—in case he needed it later.

  “Did you used to work here?” she asked at dinner. This was after one of the prep cooks had left their table, wiping his hands on his apron and grinning. He’d been trading dirty jokes with Jacky for the last five minutes, while Gloria picked silently at her salad.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “They all know you.”

  “This is the first time I’ve met any of them,” he said, smiling a little. “But now we’re all friends.”

  * * *

  Jacky collected friends like some people collect coins, or stamps. All the time, he was on, like a stage actor, and some people were repelled by that, sometimes all that energy came across as disingenuous, but most people were sucked right into his orbit. And she was too—charmed by his stories and jokes, and he always knew the right questions to ask, the way to turn a conversation around so the other person felt like the center of the world. He was made to work in sales, or politics, not washing dishes in a restaurant, but when she told him so he shrugged, and smiled.

  “I’ve had heaps of jobs,” he said. “I like to get a taste of everything.”

  He’d worked in lots of kitchens, he’d spent six months working as a night watchman at a retirement home, he’d even worked in a mortuary. Gross Mortuary, he told her, not a joke, but because it was the owner’s last name—Gross. He’d done mostly grunt work there, but he’d sometimes helped with the departed. That’s what he always called them. Not the bodies or the dead people or the stiffs. The departed. He would get them dressed in their Sunday best, put rouge on their cheeks, prop their heads on the satin pillows, and make sure their hair would lay right so the relatives settling the bill would be satisfied.

  “It wasn’t creepy?” she’d asked. “Working with dead people, I mean?”

  They were walking through a park when she asked, holding hands, and he hadn’t looked at her when she spoke, but straight ahead, squinting in the sunshine.

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t bad at all. It might’ve been the best job I ever had.”

  SAMMIE

  This is the place Jacky Seever used to live, the spot where his house once stood. It was the house where he lived with his wife, where he had an office off the dining room where he kept his account logs for the restaurants, and a desktop computer—the same computer where police had found hours and hours of pornography, some of it tame but most of it the kind where women are tied up and tortured and end up dead, although you can’t ever tell for sure, because the woman might be acting. Or not. This is where Seever ate dinner, built model cars in his free time, and murdered more than thirty people.

  But it’s all gone now, every brick has been torn down and trucked away, to be quietly used elsewhere or dumped and buried. It was done to keep the gawkers away, the sickos who come searching for a souvenir, some bit of Jacky Seever to take home with them. She doesn’t understand how people can stand it, to have a bit of a killer on display in their homes. It’s unsavory, she thinks. Distasteful. And it would drive her crazy, having that bit of Seever around all the time, making her think of him and things he’d done. She’s already reminded enough of him, isn’t she? Every day, all the time, she won’t ever be able to forget, not until the day she dies.

  What was it like, fucking him?

  She still smells like vomit.

  She’s not sure why she came here after she dropped Hoskins back off at his car, parked under a lonely streetlamp in front of this empty lot in the middle of this quiet neighborhood, except that this is where it all started. Oh, if she was completely honest, this isn’t where Seever’s story really starts—its real beginning is probably somewhere else, years and years ago, deep in his childhood, although no one would ever know the truth of it except Seever. But to her, this makes sense. This feels like the beginning.

  Carrie Simms. She wasn’t the beginning for Seever, she was the very end, the one who finally got him put away. If she hadn’t gotten away, if she’d died in that garage and been buried in that crawl space with all the others, Seever might still be free. And now she’s dead. Murdered in her own home, seven years later. Loren is dressing like Seever. Hoskins is quiet, withdrawn, different from how she’s ever known him. And Jacky Seever is locked safely away in prison. There’s something going on, she doesn’t understand what yet, it’s like she’s in the dark, groping around without knowing what she’s looking for.

  It looks strange, this empty lot in the middle of the other homes, even though the HOA is diligent about stopping the lawn from going wild, keeps the sidewalks clear of snow. Sammie wonders how long it’ll take before they put a playground in. A few park benches, a big sandbox, a nice water feature. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe it won’t. Maybe this place is too damn sad to be saved. She hasn’t been here in a long time, not since before the house was demolished, when they were still pulling bodies out of the crawl space. She’s been parked out front for almost thirty minutes, and she’s seen only two people the entire time, a couple going for a late-night walk with their dog. When they see her, they stare. She waves, the start of a smile on her lips, but the woman pulls a face and yanks the dog away, the man flips her the bird. It doesn’t upset her. They probably get a lot of strangers on this street, morbid fucks looking for a thrill. She doesn’t take it personally, but she starts her car and leaves anyway, because the man is on his cell phone, he’s looking at her and gesturing, he seems upset.

  * * *

  She needs to vomit again, get rid of the remnants of cheeseburger still left in her belly. But instead she goes into her little office, because the only bathroom in the house is stuck right between the two bedrooms, and Dean is probably awake, waiting for her, and he’d stand outside the bathroom, head cocked to one side, nostrils flaring, straining for the
scent of guilt.

  She can’t do it in the kitchen, although the sink would do in a pinch, because Dean will know, somehow he’ll find out no matter how many times she rinses or squirts bleach into the basin, and it’ll be like before, when she was doing it every day, and there’ll be questions, or an argument, and she’s not up for it, not tonight. So she sits in her office, swallowing the bile rising in her gullet. It’s a small room, not even a room but more of a nook, only enough space for a small desk and a chair, and a single shelf overflowing with books.

  The blinds in her office are still twisted open, and sitting in the dark she has a perfect view into the neighbor’s kitchen window. A couple lives there, no kids. They must not have much money, because there aren’t any window coverings, not even sheets tacked up as makeshift curtains. Or they don’t care who’s looking in. They’re in the kitchen now, at the big tiled island that runs down the center of the room, and she can’t tell if they’re talking or only standing there, in the middle of an intimate moment they don’t realize is being shared with an audience. She’s seen them before, spent lots of time watching them, although they never do anything especially interesting. But they seem pleasant enough. Normal. They like to touch, to stand beside each other and hold hands, to eat dinner and pat each other companionably on the thigh. Watching them makes her feel like she did when she was a girl, playing with the dollhouse she’d gotten for Christmas, making the toys go through the mundane motions of a drama-free existence. The mother, cooking dinner and rearranging the furniture. The father, mowing the lawn and taking out the garbage. Cliché and boring, but somehow soothing.

  She fires up her computer, opens up a blank document. The cursor blinks on the white page, waiting.

  She types: Jacky Seever has spent the last seven years in prison, but the city of Denver is still being haunted by his crimes. On December 1, 2015, Carrie Simms, Seever’s only surviving victim, was discovered in her home, the victim of a brutal murder …