EQMM, September-October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Brad pleaded he was a diabetic. He was a sick man, he had to have his insulin shot soon or he would go into a diabetic coma and die. At this the girl laughed cruelly. The girl laughed derisively. “You! Diabetic'! That's a joke. Crude pigs like you don't get sick—you make other, innocent people sick.” She paused. She was panting, ecstatic in her triumph, peering down at him. “I've been sick. Since my mother died I've been plenty sick. They never let me see her again after the crash. I was not allowed to go to the funeral. I've been in rehab. More than once, in rehab. In different states. I moved away from here. I've been taught to come to terms. I let my mother down—I was eleven when she died. That is not a little child—eleven. I was the same person I am now, at eleven. In my heart I have not changed. In my soul. My mother was sick unto death’ because of you—moving out the way you did, not even saying goodbye—she was wanting to die she was so unhappy and laying in bed all day like she was too weak to get up and dressed and I screamed at her I hated her—I said to her—you love him better than you love me, that nasty pig, go live with him. You love him go live with him. Here—"

  Stacy Lynn had been rummaging in her pockets. In the pockets of her jeans. She tossed down to Brad a notepad. And a pen. The pad—at first Brad had thought it was a pack of cigarettes—was a small spiral notebook with lined pages. By moonlight Brad could just discern this. In the rubble he was fumbling for the pen. He understood now—the girl was insane—he had no choice but to cooperate with her or he would die.

  "Take this dictation, man! C'mon, man! Say—I, Bradford Shifke, resident of'—you can fill that in later, man—also the date—am the cause of Linda Gutshalk's death in June nineteen eighty-five. I was a molester of her daughter Stacy Lynn when Stacy Lynn was a little girl between the ages of five and eleven. I molested that pathetic little girl. I made her beg for food like her mother had to beg for love.'"

  Like a figure in a silent film—contorted by pain, despair—yet the provocation of hilarity, in the observer—bizarrely Brad was trying to write, as the girl crouched above him dictating in a high-pitched urgent voice. His stiffened fingers could barely grasp the plastic ballpoint pen. He didn't know what he was writing—trying to write—yet he persevered, as if his life depended upon it. High overhead rubble-shaped clouds shuttered the moon briefly. Then, there came patches of moonlight like muffled cries. How long Brad wrote in the little notepad—how long, his legs twisted beneath him, he tried to write—he could not have said; yet though he persevered, suddenly his tormentor said, as if this were the punch line of a joke: “Hey asshole—desist! You'll retract any confession you make—think I don't know that? It's worthless. It's shit. Anything you touch is shit. You believed me, did you—you pathetic old man. You're old now, you'd believe anything to save your worthless life."

  "Stacy—I won't retract it—I promise."

  "My name is Stacy Lynn not Stacy! Like you have any right to utter my name or my mother's name—you're trash. Your soul is trash. Even Christ would spit upon you, you poison everyone you touch."

  "No, please. I've never hurt anyone—not on purpose. I promise—"

  "Bullshit! Tell it to some other female you betrayed and caused to die. I'm going now. I'm leaving you in just the right place. You can crawl back to Star Lake like a worm or you can die here like a worm, nobody will miss you. I'm not returning to Star Lake. I'm not returning to Carthage. At the motel I gave them a false name. It was my birthday last Friday—I am twenty-five years old. I had a health scare a few months ago, I had a biopsy at the county medical clinic and it turned out negative. I drove three thousand miles for this. For this moment, I drove three thousand miles and I lived three thousand years—ninety days in rehab. No one knows where I am. No one knows where you are. You are being punished, Brad-Daddy. You're shit, see? You don't even have a soul. My soul is stunted and deformed like a plant that has been growing beneath a rock or in a crack but my soul can prosper, if there's sun. If there's nourishment, and sun. But not you. Not you. A man like you.” Stacy Lynn paused. Brad could hear her harsh, heavy breath. She laughed, striking the palms of her hands together in childish glee. “But know what?—I will let you live. God says forgive the worst enemies. Christ says forgive so I am letting you live, Brad."

  He was alone. The girl had gone. The girl had heaved herself to her feet and departed. Half-conscious Brad could hear her making her way through the underbrush. Frantically he called after her to help him—not to leave him alone in this terrible place but to help him—but of course he was alone, his tormenter had left him alone in the ruins of the Beersheba cemetery. In his fall into the ravine he'd struck his head, and his forehead—he was bleeding from a cut above his eye. He thought I am not blinded. My eye has been spared. His wounded leg was beginning to turn numb, as if it were the leg of another man. At a distance there was terrible pain but here Brad felt his body shake loose, float. He was very tired but the rocks were lifting him. The icy-glittering stream was related in some way to the coursing of his blood through his arteries and veins. His heart pounded like a fist against a locked door, he was breathing in shallow spurts like an old dog made to run by a cruel master. Yet she'd let him live. She'd had mercy on him, she'd given him back his life and he meant to take the gift of that life. When his strength returned he would crawl out of the ravine. When he was in the cemetery he would begin to call for help. He would drag himself to the road, he would call for help. His cries would be heard, eventually. He would not give up—he was not a crushed worm, to give up. Had the bleeding in his leg stopped? He thought possibly the bleeding had stopped. He thought If the bleeding is stopped that is a good sign.

  Copyright © 2010 Joyce Carol Oates

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  Fiction: SO MUCH IN COMMON by Mary Jane Maffini

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  Art by Jason Eckhardt

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  Canadian Mary Jane Maffini writes three mystery series at novel-length. The first of them, featuring Camilla MacPhee, who runs an advocacy agency for victims of violent crime, has been optioned for television by the Toronto-based Thump Entertainment. Ms. Maffini's most recent book, Closet Confidential, belongs to a series set in New York's Hudson Valley, starring a professional organizer. Released in May 2010 by Berkley, it's the fourth in a series The Sherbrooke Record describes as full of the author's “characteristically dark humor."

  Luck was with her that day or Willa Bennington might never have encountered Cliff and Leann Capshaw at the Towne Center Gourmet. How fortuitous they rounded the corner into Personal Grooming Products just as Willa collapsed with a sharp intake of breath. Their large, handsome faces creased with concern as Willa bit her lower lip and gripped the metal-edged shelf. The well-dressed man offered his arm in support while his stylish wife gathered up Willa's spilled purchases. Following introductions, Willa said, “It's my worn-out hip. I feel like such a dithery old fool."

  That was true enough. Usually Willa was the one who rushed to assist people in need. But Cliff's fine wool suit and the large opal-and-diamond ring gracing Leann's finger confirmed that they had everything they needed.

  "You must put your feet up,” Leann said, guiding Willa to the front of the store.

  Willa grimaced. “It will take more than that. I'm waiting for a hip replacement."

  Cliff said. “Too darn hot in this supermarket for such a heavy coat. No wonder you tumbled, little lady."

  Willa appreciated that explanation. The cashmere topper was a bit much, even for the frozen-foods section. “I must say, I mind the winters."

  Willa's hands trembled as she paid for her boneless chicken, orange juice, and frozen peas. When Arnold and Molly were alive, she'd often bought Brome Lake ducks to serve Shanghai style. That remained her favourite image, fresh and crisp as if those dinners had been yesterday: the three of them at Willa's table, elbows on the damask cloth, guzzling rosé, howling with laughter, to hell with Emily Post. They'd have to wash their sticky hands before moving on to the Armagnac. So much in com
mon, such good friends. But it had been seven hundred and twenty-two days since Arnold's funeral and six hundred and eighty since Molly's. Now Willa ate grilled chicken for one with never a whiff of rosé.

  The cashier was all smiles. No doubt it was the warm, concerned brown of Leann's eyes and Cliff's broad expanse of teeth. Such attractive people: Cliff's sandy hair shot with silver and Leann's dark fashionably angled bob so right for her statuesque figure. Willa had been coming to the Towne Center Gourmet for years, yet that wretched girl had never once smiled at her.

  Cliff and Leann wouldn't hear of her driving herself home. What were neighbours for? Not that they were actual neighbours, living on the far side of the river in a new gated community. Willa appreciated the pretence.

  Cliff said, “Close enough."

  Leann said, “Is there anyone to look after you?"

  "I'll be fine.” Willa resolved to control the tremor in her voice.

  "A neighbor?” Leann said.

  "No one I care to deal with.” She managed to produce a small, brave smile.

  "We'll take care of you, hon.” Cliff promised to get Willa's ancient Audi home safely, while Leann ferried Willa in their obviously new Cadillac.

  Willa had always appreciated Caddies, especially glossy black ones. Of course, she'd driven them as a young woman. She'd loved the way they handled, smooth, responsive, and the looks she got swooping around town. After all, Daddy had owned the dealership. Those had been the good old days.

  Leann took Willa's tiny hands with her large, splendidly manicured ones. “We will make things better."

  Willa brightened. “Oh, I believe it."

  * * * *

  Detective Sergeant Joe Kelly glowered across the desk at his long-time partner. “Just a matter of time until these creeps victimize someone else."

  Bill Jameson said. “Twelve frigging days until your pension kicks in, you gotta let it go. The Carsons are ancient history."

  "I can't just stand by and let them do it again."

  "You assigned to the Carson case?"

  "There's no case. You know that. Just a tip they're operating in the area again."

  "Here's another tip: Finish off your paperwork and head for the golf course."

  Kelly didn't give a rat's ass about golf. Or paperwork. His wife, Tildy, had planned bird-watching adventures for their retirement, before the aneurysm ambushed her. He didn't mention the bird-watching to Jameson. Life was too short for that.

  Jameson was always the practical one. “Forget the Carsons. How many times we been down that road?"

  Kelly wasn't likely to forget the Carsons, especially the day they were acquitted. Tildy had been an avid vocabulary builder. She might have called the Carsons’ expressions jubilant amusement. Or subtly malevolent glee. Possibly gloating challenge.

  Kelly knew by the cocky way they held their heads that they'd resurface to clean out another pensioner. Kelly had seen the impact on the victims as trials dragged on. He'd witnessed folks who'd expected a comfortable retirement and instead found shock, betrayal, and financial ruin. First hoodwinked by the criminals and then abandoned by the system. Kelly watched the juries get sucked in. The final victims he'd worked with hadn't lasted long after the trial. Massive coronary for him, dead before he hit the floor. Six weeks later a vial of sleeping pills and a bottle of Armagnac for her. Now those bastard Carsons were working his town again. Trouble was, what the hell could he do about it?

  * * * *

  Willa was tickled to accept a dinner invitation from Cliff and Leann. Dinner had been very sophisticated: sushi, marinated salmon, baby bok choy.

  "The chocolate soufflé was to die for,” she said with a soft sigh of pleasure

  Leann beamed. “We were lucky to find this caterer. I love to eat, as you can probably tell by looking at me, but I hate to cook."

  Willa changed the subject politely. “Such a lovely home.” She marvelled at the magazine-quality kitchen. Admired the acres of dusky granite.

  Leann raised a small crystal snifter. “The place is way too big for us, being away so much, but we enjoy the space."

  Cliff said, “Can't take it with you, hon."

  "True enough. And you should definitely enjoy life while you can,” Willa agreed.

  "Damn straight.” Cliff topped up the Cointreau.

  Cliff and Leann usually wintered in Antigua, although this year they were stuck home because of crucial business developments. Leann missed the sunsets but it would be worth it. “There'll always be another sunset."

  These developments were huge but extremely hush-hush. Afterwards, it would be Antigua every winter, and then Provence for spring. Leann and Cliff planned to keep their place in Nantucket for the summers, naturally. Willa would be invited to spend a month with them, just pick the location.

  "I do love to cook. When things are settled, I'll prepare a celebration dinner for you,” Willa said.

  "You aren't to wait on us! Give that hip a rest. It must be agony for you, bone on bone,” Leann shivered. “Imagine needing a complete hip replacement."

  "Let the little lady cook if she wants to, hon,” Cliff said. “But she may have to do it in Provence."

  "Oh you,” Leann said.

  They drove her home in the Cadillac, treated like minor royalty.

  "You sure you're all right for groceries, Willa?"

  "Careful on those stairs, hon."

  Not since Molly and Arnold had she had so much fond attention.

  Willa hadn't expected to encounter that tall, thin policeman again. She'd been so touched to see him in his damp and rumpled raincoat at Arnold's funeral more than two years ago. Then again at Molly's a few months later, another appropriately dreary day. It had startled Willa to observe someone else so filled with pain. Sometimes, she'd thought she was the only one.

  "Of course, I remember you, Detective Kelly."

  "You do? You look more rested since the trial. I wouldn't have even recognized you."

  Willa smiled. “Well, those were dark days. I've gained back a bit of weight. I've been working on getting better after . . . “ her voice trailed off. It was still hard to say “after Molly and Arnold.” And who wanted to hear about hip replacements?

  Detective Kelly, on the other hand, hadn't changed a bit. He still looked damp, although it wasn't raining. His suit was decent quality, although needing a press. He'd missed a trip to the barber. The cowlicks were taking over his salt- and-pepper crewcut. His hands were too big for his body and tortoiseshell bifocals magnified the bags under his eyes. Even so, he just missed being good-looking, in a sad hound-dog way. He was a man who needed looking after.

  "Taking retirement, Miss Bennington,” he said as Willa poured steaming Darjeeling into Wedgwood cups. “Mandatory."

  He was probably close to sixty, a few years younger than Willa. Every now and then he fingered his worn gold wedding band. At Molly's funeral he'd mentioned his wife had died awhile back.

  Willa sat at the edge of the camelback sofa and leaned forward. “Mandatory retirement? I think that will be a loss to the police."

  "Almost had them, you know, the Carsons."

  "At the time, you said it was practically impossible to get a conviction in fraud cases."

  "They're clever, these bastards, pardon my language. They build trust, exploit greed. Works in court, too. Juries."

  "You almost have to admire them, exploiting greed."

  He clanked his cup in the saucer. “No, ma'am. You don't."

  "You're right. Molly and Arnold weren't greedy. Trusting, though. The betrayal did Arnold in. Then Molly, well . . . “

  "Yes."

  "Surely if these Carsons are so clever, they could make a living honestly."

  "Indeed they could. But it's a game to them, winning over the victim. A vicious bit of play-acting."

  "They certainly won Molly and Arnold. In my heart of hearts, I know that's why they died. Not just their money, but their lives stolen from them."

  He said. “The court
s manage the odd conviction, on the light side. Sometimes suspended. That kind of white-collar criminal usually gets community service. Nonviolent."

  Willa pursed her lips. “Seems to me there are different kinds of violence."

  "You don't have to convince me. Some do time, usually in minimum-security. They charm the prison officials, get parole. Out in no time."

  "But surely people are very gullible."

  His eye flicked from the marquetry tables to the silky Persian carpet, past the Georgian silver candlesticks, before sliding back to her face. He drew her attention to the photos he'd brought to refresh her memory of the Carsons. The woman, tall, flamboyantly elegant, deep red hair in a French twist, and sharp blue eyes, cunning, but only in retrospect. The man, shiny bald with dark-rimmed glasses and a substantial moustache.

  "Don't worry. I could never forget the people who took Arnold and Molly from me,” Willa said.

  "They're back. If you see them, get in touch.” He handed Willa his card. “In the next twelve days."

  "It's going through!” Leann wrapped Willa in a huge hug and almost lifted her off the ground.

  "What is?” Willa swayed with shared excitement.