by S. J. Harris
“There’s always the internet. Newspaper ads. There’s lots of ways to get Jenny’s info out. You don’t have to travel all over the country tacking up posters.”
“I do all that stuff already, but it’s not the same. By traveling I feel like I’m doing something. Actively seeking her. I might go nuts staying in one place. It’s something I’m going to have to give a lot of thought to.”
“You really think Jenny’s still out there somewhere?”
“I’m sure of it. I don’t know how to explain it. I just feel it in my heart.”
I told Sara about playing detective down in Hallows Cove. I showed her Darla Bose’s picture.
“Wow. She’s probably about the age Jenny would be now.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m doing this,” I said. “Her family deserves closure. I think I’m close to having enough evidence against Lori Barbera to go to the police.”
“You found the finger in Louisville, Kentucky?”
“Well, just outside of Louisville. But, yeah, I was working at the University Hospital downtown.”
Sara mixed us another drink. The Beatles were singing “Love Me Do.”
“Louisville,” Sara said. “I’ve never told anybody this, so you have to cross your heart and hope to die that it’s just between me and you.”
“Always.”
“The summer before my senior year of college I met this guy. Jerry and I had been a couple since high school, you know, but Jerry was up at UCLA and we only saw each other once a month or so and we had different sets of friends during our college years. Anyways, I met this guy in a club one night, right before closing time, and he asked me out for the following night. This guy was from Louisville, on vacation out here in California. We almost didn’t go out at all because while I was out shopping the next day my car broke down and I wasn’t at home when I’d told him to call. I finally made it home at, like, eight o’clock, and he called and I met him at his motel. We went to dinner, had a few beers and then went to Ocean Beach and walked in the moonlight. He kissed me, Kim, and I swear it was like something out of a movie. We stood there on the beach and kissed for awhile with the waves crashing behind us and our faces lit by the moon. Something stirred inside me, something I’d never felt, not even with Jerry. We went back to his motel and sat in his car, talking and kissing until five o’clock in the morning.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
“No. That was the thing. He was a perfect gentleman, never tried anything. We just kissed. I mean, we kissed, but it didn’t go further than that. He got a few hours sleep and flew back to Louisville that same day. A couple of days later he called me and we started talking on the phone two or three times a week and writing each other letters. I was still with Jerry, technically, even though we didn’t see each other very much. I guess we both knew we’d get married after college even though we weren’t officially engaged. Anyways, do you remember in January of ’99 when I said I was going back east to visit some friends?”
“I remember. I was pissed ‘cause you didn’t invite me along.”
“That trip back east was really to visit this guy in Louisville. I stayed at his parents’ house for a week and I’ve never had such a wonderful time.”
“You keep saying ‘this guy.’ What was his name?”
“Michael. His name was Michael. He showed me all around Louisville. I remember one day we went to this huge antique store that was more like a museum or something.”
“Joe Ley’s,” I said.
“That’s it. At night we went to clubs and danced and ate at White Castle and partied with his friends. One of those nights, when we got back to his parents’ house late, we were sitting alone at the kitchen table and he wrote ‘I LOVE YOU SARA’ on a banana. How cool and crazy is that? Unique, to say the least. And he meant it, Kim. I could tell he meant it. I was pretty confused. I had Jerry back here in San Diego but--and I’ve never admitted this to anyone--my soul mate was in Kentucky. The day after he wrote on the banana we were out in his parents’ front yard having a snowball fight, laughing and frolicking like little kids, and I told him I wanted to peel his banana. That night we checked into a motel and made love for the first and only time. It was out of this world. Two days later I flew back to San Diego and never saw him again. But I thought seriously about staying in Louisville.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
Sara started crying. “I sold him out. Jerry was in his last year of law school, his future looked bright, we’d been together a long time and I was close to his family and all. I guess I traded true love for stability and financial security. Michael, the Louisville guy, was a freelance writer, still living with his parents. He was poor, but I loved him. I can’t say I regret anything, because if things hadn’t happened just as they did I wouldn’t have my children now. I have to think that at least that part of it was meant to be. But sometimes I still wonder what it would have been like if I’d stayed in Kentucky. I still think about him sometimes. Anyways, the moral of the story is, if you feel like Jim Higgins is your soul mate, the love of your life, you should cling to him, never leave him, never let him go. You might never get a chance at true love again.”
Sara stood up and took a drink of rum straight from the bottle. She carried the bottle up the rocky embankment that led to the train bridge and stood there looking across the span.
“Come on up, Kim. It’s beautiful up here.”
I followed her, slipping once and banging my knee on a sharp stone. I stood beside her and gazed into the abyss, lightheaded from the rum and the hundred foot drop we were facing.
“Are you okay?” Sara asked.
“I’m all right. I just tore a little skin on my knee.”
Sara took a swig of rum, handed me the bottle. “Let’s walk the trestles,” she said. “It’ll be fun, just like the old days.”
“Too scary. I thought we agreed on that.”
“Don’t be such a pussy,” Sara said. “Anyways, it can’t be any scarier than flying in a damn helicopter. You do that all the time.”
“It’s my job,” I said. “I don’t really enjoy the flying part. It is scary. But I enjoy getting to the scene fast and helping someone in need.”
“Little Miss Altruism, that’s our Kim.” Sara walked a few cross ties toward the other side. “You going to make me do this alone? Come on, puss. We did this a thousand times in high school.”
I followed her, keeping a few railroad ties of distance between us. Before I knew it we were at the center of the bridge. We sat on the tracks facing each other. Stars dotted the inky sky above. Below us was nothing but black, a bottomless pit. The air was still and quiet except for John, Paul, George and Ringo in the distance.
“Here we are,” I said. “Now let’s go back.”
“In a minute. We’ll always be friends, won’t we?”
“Of course. Nothing can change that.”
Sara wiped her eyes. “I miss having you around. We e-mail each other and talk on the phone sometimes, but I miss your physical presence. Sometimes I really need a hug from my bestest friend.”
I rose to my feet. “Here I am,” I said.
Sara stood and we embraced. As sisters we converged, hovering high over the valley below.
Five minute after we came down, a train sped by. We barely missed being killed.
I drove Sara home.
19
Saturday morning Daddy drove me to the airport and I boarded my flight back to Florida. Somewhere over Texas, I finally broke down. I hadn’t shed a tear at Greta’s funeral but for some reason the loss, Blake’s loss, hit hard at thirty-thousand feet.
The flight attendant brought me a package of tissues and a can of Lite beer. I drank half of the beer with a bag of honey-roasted peanuts and started feeling a little better. I needed to pull myself together; I had lots of work to do down in Hallows Cove.
I had met with Greg Mears, the CPA, Friday after the funeral. I let him talk me into an IRA and some oth
er investments but not into a date for that night. I told him I was already seeing someone.
***
Bill Driscoll picked me up at Jacksonville International. On the drive to Hallows Cove I asked him why he hadn’t told me he used to work for Ron Kuhlman.
“How do you know about that?” He asked.
“A friend of mine in San Diego did a little background check.” Blake, bless his heart, had checked out Bill Driscoll and Jake Gordon when I’d given him the license plate numbers.
“Yeah, Ron fired me, the son of a bitch. He said I’d been late too many times. I was pissed for a while. I even thought about blackmailing him. I figured if I’d stayed with Kuhlman’s Fence Company until retirement age I would have made four-hundred forty-three thousand, five-hundred and fifty-six dollars.”
I wondered if Bill had actually calculated the amount or had come up with the figure off the top of his head. “How could you have blackmailed him?” I asked.
“Ron’s a whoredog from way back. His wife Diane caught him with Lori Barbera, but Ron’s been with a bunch of women Diane doesn’t know about. We worked out of town a lot, all over Florida and Georgia, sometimes staying in motels for two or three week stretches. Ron never failed to find some local bar bitch to sack up with on those out-of-town trips. I remember this one chick he hooked up with. Her name was Dawn or Joy, something like that, one of those dishwashing liquid names. She was a bank teller and he met her in the motel lounge. She had a t-shirt on with ‘SEVERE PENALTY FOR EARLY WITHDRAWAL’ written on the back. That’s the kind of girls Ron went for. Lori Barbera was the only full-fledged affair I know about, but I could have threatened to tell Diane about the road bitches. Ron would have paid me, too. It would have been a lot cheaper than a divorce. Of course, I didn’t blackmail him. I never really thought seriously about it. After I got the job at Kessler’s we became friends again. Like I told you before, we had a regular pool game every other Saturday.”
He dropped me off at The Parkside, where I’d left my car, and we said goodnight.
***
I drove back to The Parkside Sunday afternoon and Bill picked me up there. Before taking me to his Aunt Julie’s for dinner, he drove south of Green Cove Springs to the future site of his ostrich farm.
“Americans love their beef,” Bill said. “But if ostrich meat ever takes off, which I think it will, it’s going to be a gold mine. Ostrich is similar in taste and texture to beef--better if you ask me--and it’s cheaper to produce. The feed-to-weight ratio on an ostrich maxes out at three point five to one. That means that for a bird to gain one pound it takes three point five pounds of feed. For a cow, the ratio’s more like twenty to one. Plus, ostrich meat is healthier. Less fat. And you don’t need steroids, antibiotics and hormones like most of the beef industry uses.”
“I guess a lot of science goes into farming.”
“You have to know what you’re doing,” Bill said.
We walked the perimeter of the property. It was a flat, five-acre plot with a small pond at one end. A wide variety of weeds thrived. Bill warned me to stay clear of the cactus plants and wild blackberry bushes as we stepped along. I felt sweat trickling down my back.
“First thing I’ll have to do is take all this barbed wire down and put up some smooth wire five-foot farm fence. Then I’ll plant a couple acres alfalfa for grazing. Over here’s the shelter and feeders I’ve started building.”
Near the pond, a concrete block foundation supported the wood frame skeleton of a three-sided shelter. The shelter was topped with a metal shed-style roof. Inside, Bill had started assembling wooden partitioned feeders for his future birds. It looked as though his plan was coming together.
“Are you going to build a house here?” I asked. “Are you planning to live here?”
“Absolutely. Five acres is enough to get started with two breeding pairs. Once the farm starts working I should be able to secure a construction loan and build a house. Right now, getting the money together to get started is my main problem. I’ve been working on Aunt Julie, but she’s a hard sell.”
We walked back to Bill’s car and he cranked up the air conditioner. We were both sweaty from the midday heat. Bill pulled out a folder and showed me the production coefficients and cash flow budgets for a mature pair of breeding ostriches. Everything looked good on paper.
“Educating the public about the benefits of ostrich over beef is going to be the key to making this whole thing take off,” he said.
***
When we pulled into Aunt Julie’s driveway I popped open the vanity mirror on the passenger-side visor and checked my makeup.
“Do I look okay?” I asked.
“Beautiful, as usual,” Bill said. “Don’t worry, Aunt Julie’s going to love you.”
She greeted us at the door. Bill’s aunt had shoulder-length auburn hair and green cat-like eyes. Her glossed lips peeled into a smile, revealing a perfect set of porcelain veneers.
“Billy,” she said with a deep southern drawl, “how did a scrub like you latch on to such a beauty?”
“Rust rucky, I ress,” Bill said, doing a pretty good Scooby-Doo.
“We’re just friends,” I added. “Thank you for the compliment. Very nice of you to say.”
Aunt Julie pressed a cheek next to mine and kissed the air. Chanel No. 5. “Y’all come on in. Dinner’s almost ready. Have a seat there on the couch. I’ll be right back.”
Aunt Julie walked to the kitchen.
“This place is gorgeous,” I whispered to Bill. “I love your aunt’s taste in art and furniture.”
“You’re going to love dinner, too,” Bill said. “She fixed lasagna.”
Aunt Julie called us to the dining room. Like the living room, gleaming ultra-modern décor made a striking visual statement against the home’s Victorian architecture.
“This looks wonderful, Mrs. Mason,” I said, referring to the feast at hand. “And it smells wonderful.”
“Please, call me Julie,” she said. “Come on, let’s eat.”
After I’d finished about half my salad and most of a book-sized slab of lasagna, Julie rose and went to the kitchen for a second bottle of Cabernet-Sauvignon. Bill had consumed most of the first one and I told him he better slow down if he intended to drive me back to the motel. He just laughed.
I passed on the homemade strawberry ice cream for dessert, claiming lactose intolerance. I hid my trembling hands in my lap while Bill and Julie enjoyed theirs. I haven’t done well around ice cream since the day Jenny was kidnapped.
After dinner, against Bill’s protests, Julie insisted on showing some home movies, the earliest of which had been transferred to disk from 8mm film. One of the scenes showed the Driscoll family getting ready for Sunday school. Bill’s mother wore a tight-fitting dress with a hem line well above the knees (she had the figure for it) and his father wore a sky-blue jacket, matching pants, and a printed shirt with its wide collar folded around the outside of the jacket’s lapels.
“They called those ‘leisure suits,’” Julie informed me. “Weren’t they hideous?”
Stella Driscoll, Bill’s mother, chased two year old Billy around helter-skelter, Bill’s cloth diaper swaying from the weight of a turd the size of a Coke bottle, swaying like some hell-bound pendulum. Julie apologized for the dizzying bounce on that scene. She had been holding the camera, laughing so hard the shot looked as though it had been taken from the back of a galloping horse.
“Mom and Dad died soon after that film was taken,” Bill said. He was crouched in the corner of the sofa with his arms crossed, obviously embarrassed. His eyes were glassy, though, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t from the wine buzz.
The film of Bill’s fifth birthday showed Julie and Richard Mason (they had adopted orphan Bill by then) presenting him with his first pet, a black Toy Poodle.
“I asked for a Labrador,” Bill said. “I wanted a big yellow lab and that’s what I got, a Toy Poodle.”
“You loved Toby,” Julie said.
“No I’m not.”
Bill put an arm around me and discreetly punched a finger into my rib cage. I got the message.
“We have to be going, anyway,” Bill said. “I told some friends we’d meet them at Kelly’s.”
I thanked Julie for dinner, reiterated what a lovely home she had, told her I was sure we’d see each other again soon.
We cruised in the direction of The Parkside.
“I thought we were meeting friends at Kelly’s,” I said.
Bill laughed. “I just made that up so we could get out of there.”
“It would be nice to go out for awhile. How about Lyon’s Den? I’m sure there’s a baseball game on tonight. We could watch it on the big screen.”
“I don’t like that place,” Bill said. “Too noisy.”
“It’s Sunday. The band’s not playing tonight.”
“You know what they have on Sunday nights? Karaoke. Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on. It might be fun,” I said.
“I’ll pass. We can stop by Kelly’s if you want. I’m not going to Lyon’s den.”
“Oh, all right,” I said, pouting.
Kelly’s was crowded. I sat on the one open stool we found at the bar and Bill told me to order him a Bud while he went to the restroom. I ordered myself a soda and lime, thinking I might be the one driving home.
I noticed that the guys in the band from Lyon’s Den, all except Da-vi, the female singer, were playing doubles on one of the pool tables. Peter Daniels saw me wave. He swaggered to the bar and ordered a pitcher of Coors. He gave me an affectionate punch on the arm.
“What’s up?” Peter said.
“Hi Peter. My friend and I just stopped for a drink. I thought we might shoot some pool but it looks like all the tables are taken.”