A door slammed and she heard Kyle yell, “Did you take care of the stock trailer? Julie! Where the hell are you?”
She wiped her eyes. “I’m coming.”
“Where were you? I left my truck here because you were supposed to hitch the trailer. Is it ready?” His faded jeans were smudged with bits of dried cement and flecks of blood where he’d cut his hand. “I only have an hour before I have to get back to work.” Dried blood encircled a big Band-Aid that he’d slapped on his knuckles. “And Greg’s probably got less time than that,” he said, opening a jar of peanuts for a quick lunch.
“It’s ready,” Julie said as she brushed by him, her dark ringlets of curls pulled back, her tissue clutched in her fist. “It’s ready.” There was no use in telling him how much she missed the boys. There was no use in telling him anything, especially not today. He was already in a bad mood because a new hire hadn’t showed up for work, and on top of that he’d taken all of Kyle’s tools. A temper tantrum was on the horizon, she could feel it. One word from her would set him off. At this point, she wasn’t sure why she was still living here. Maybe it was because there was nowhere else to go. Julie got in the truck with him and stared straight ahead. As they left, the aluminum trailer clanged over a rut at the end of the driveway—she hated that rut, the rut she endured every day.
Kyle backed up the trailer. Greg was holding Otto’s leather lead, looking amused as he watched the fourteen-hundred pound steer lick his worn out leather work boots. Greg’s tar-ridden jeans were frayed at the knees, and soot highlighted his collar and his baseball cap. Debra waved from the porch when Julie hopped out of the truck.
“It’s a good thing he likes my boots,” Greg said. “Wherever Otto wants to go, Otto goes.” Julie’s face softened when she smiled at Greg. She waved to Debra and pulled down the ramp, and then meandered to where Debra was. Her job was done. This was Kyle’s gig.
“You’ve been crying,” Debra said.
“You can tell?” Julie opened her eyes wide and finger-swiped any telltale signs of tears. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional. The university is only a two-hour drive.”
“We should take a day and drive up there. I heard it’s beautiful.” Debra tucked her long hair behind her ears.
The fourteen-hundred pound steer pranced backward, throwing cow-kicks. Kyle circled back and smacked the animal’s hide. Otto’s nostrils flared, he snorted and barreled up the ramp and into the trailer. Then Kyle maneuvered around him, secured the tether, and Greg pulled up the ramp.
“You girls want to go for a ride?” Greg yelled. “We can stop for a quick hamburger on the way back.”
“No, you go ahead,” Julie yelled back. “I’m holding out for a McOtto burger.” Julie waited for Debra to laugh or giggle or something. Nothing.
Debra, standing with Julie, watched the trailer drive away and out of sight. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said.
“Oh, he’ll be back.” Julie leaned into her a little bit with her shoulder and smiled, anticipating a cheerfulness here. But Debra wouldn’t be cheered which seemed strange because no one should have been happier to get rid of that bull than her.
“How long do you think it will take? I’m mean . . . until he’s freezer meat?” Debra said in all seriousness.
“You don’t have a tender spot for that steer, do you?”
“Yeah . . . I do.” Debra’s face, the arch of her brows, were poised in regret. “It’s reserved for the end of my fork.”
Julie gave her a sideways glance. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”
“It sounded better in my head.”
They shared a grin, two women and one silly grin. Here was Debra, Julie thought, at least ten years younger than herself, practically a girl, someone too young to have ever known real sorrow. She loved that about Debra, her innocence. “You’re not going to eat any of it. Are you?”
“I’d have to be starving.”
Chapter 23
The accountant had shown Debra, tax-wise, what to do when they incorporated Greg’s carpentry business into a Sub-chapter S corporation. She had separated each form on the dining room table for Hamilton Carpentry Inc. and now she had to fill them out—Ohio Unemployment, Ohio Worker’s Comp, 941, IT 501. The quarterly federal tax and the State of Ohio quarterly tax were two more slips of paper bundled with their own instructions and mailing envelopes. But there were bills, too. Banner Supply, Builders Loft, Decker Steel, Landmark Fuel, and Bradley Dump-yard were in a neat pile of unopened mail, shoved in the corner. Every last one of them wanted money—money they had scrimped together.
Debra sat down and picked up a thick worker’s comp instruction booklet, holding her forehead in her hand. Twenty-six percent of payroll per construction worker—down to 10% through the Twinsburg Chamber of Commerce—down to 6% if she followed recommendations mandated for ‘Safety in the Workplace’ that required eleven typed pages of rules integrated with their own. This was a job in itself. She’d worked in a legal office in Cincinnati, and had wanted to do the same here, but Greg had told her to wait a year so she could organize his business.
“This is nuts. It’s just the two of us. Why wouldn’t he be careful? He is the company.” Debra heard a car pull in. Mr. Brubom was early. She grabbed his contract and a clipboard, and hurried to the front porch where she saw a new white 1984 Cadillac Seville stop halfway up the driveway. The car door opened and a portly man in his sixties set his feet, one at a time, on the gravel driveway. Mr. Brubom wore a leather cowboy hat and held an unlit cigar. He flicked unseen ashes and hoisted himself up, holding onto the car door; his watermelon belly hung over his belt.
Seeing the century home, he stopped and gazed at the one-of-a-kind mansion, as most people did, either in admiration or in sympathy. On his way to the porch where Debra was waiting, he stopped to gaze again, taking his time as he lumbered to the porch.
“I always loved this old house,” he said, feeling the gingerbread trim overhead that framed the porch. “You should have Greg take those lightning rods down . . . . Did you know Ed Cummings?”
“No, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the name.”
“Oh you probably wouldn’t have. No telling how many renters this house has had over the years. Ed lived here ‘bout seven years ago. He was a cop in Brook Park. Loved cats, couldn’t turn ’em away. Too bad about his accident though,” Mr. Brubom said. “He was so young, such a nice fellow. He’d only been on the force a year.”
“Accident? What happened to him?”
“Well . . .” Brubom began. “Him and his two buddies were renting here . . .”
“I’m so sorry, please sit down.” Debra gestured towards one of two rocking chairs. Men were never invited inside, even clients. The garage was an option in case of rain or snow, but then she’d have to stand at the edge of it and flag them down. Everyone that came to the house seemed to be drawn to the front door, “Would you like something to drink?”
“No . . . no, I’m fine.” He stood, leaning on the pillar. Debra could see the old chalky paint coming off on his nice jacket. But she would keep it to herself.
“You were saying?”
“Oh yes, Ed Cummings; he had an accident right here in this house. Killed him, you know. It was such a shame. He was only twenty-three.”
“Really?” Her eyes opened wide. “Here?”
“Right here, in the basement, knee-deep in water . . . it used to flood, you know. You don’t go down there, do you?” Brubom used the white pillar as his personal scratching post, unaware that he was smudging chalky paint all over his back.
“Greg fixed it so it won’t flood anymore. What were you saying about the policeman . . . Ed?”
Oh yeah . . . Ed was standing knee-deep in water and he plugged in the sump pump. Electrocuted him right there on the spot,” Brubom said. “How did Greg fix it from flooding?”
Debra didn’t answer at first. The way he kept switching subjects was making her dizzy. She collected her thoughts.
“Someone cemented over the original drainage, but Greg didn’t know that until he pick-axed a hole in the cement . . . . This man died? Here?”
“Yeah, electrocuted to death, it was a shock.” He cleared his throat to signal that he hadn’t meant to make a pun. “What made Greg take a pick-ax to the floor?”
The abrupt subject change got her again. “Greg? Oh. He was looking for the lowest spot to set the sump pump. Greg tells this better than I do. When he broke the cement, water came bubbling up from underneath, and the more it rose up, the more he thought, ‘what the hell did I do?’”
“What the hell did he do?”
“At the time, nothing. The water drained back out through the hole he’d made, and the basement’s been dry ever since. He says he’d kept wondering what they did a hundred years ago when this house didn’t have electricity.
“I’ll be darned. Where does it drain to?”
“The original underground tiles were over here.” She stepped off the porch, pointed to a line of new grass. “Believe it or not, the lowest part of the basement is just above creek level. He rented a backhoe and replaced the clay tiles with a corrugated pipe. It drains to the creek over there,” Debra said, showing him the row of cherry trees and wild raspberries that hid the creek.
“You know, when I was young I used to have that kind of energy. My wife sucked out every last bit. We’re getting a divorce, you know. She’s got a high-priced lawyer whose going to drain me of every last dollar.”
“Oh.” Debra sighed, wondering how he’d landed on this subject, knowing she’d never get rid of him now that he was on a roll. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I retired last year and then right before Christmas, she tells me I get on her nerves. She tells me I’ve been getting on her nerves for thirty years and she can’t take it anymore.”
Debra stood there, listening to him ramble on with her arms folded, shaking her head to say too bad, nodding her head to say good thing, thinking about the man killed in her house. How would she ever sleep here again? She started biting her cuticle, muting Brubom’s words, looking past his moving lips. Anticipating Midnight’s purr at her ankles, she looked for him. She knew somehow he was dead.
Chapter 24
Debra and Julie were jogging close to town in Edgewood Park this morning, the perfect place for endurance running—up steep hills and down again. There was a quiet between them, the kind of acceptable quiet between two friends. At least that’s what Debra liked to think.
The weeks had drudged by so slowly. It was November now, 1984, which was a long time coming. It was thirty degrees, too cold too early for this time of year. The trees were almost bare and scatterings of leaves floated down on a whim.
Debra would visit the Laundromat after this. Her laundry had piled up long enough and she’d stuffed it in the trunk of her car. She wouldn’t go in the basement. Even with the basement door closed, she envisioned vapors of death wafting up through the cracks in the floorboards. Greg had tried to console her and she had tried to be consoled, but it was no use. The Laundromat was a half hour drive—coupled with a few other errands, it was worth the drive.
“I think it’s going to snow today. It’s so cloudy,” Julie said in frosty breaths.
“It smells like fall. I’ve always loved that smell.” Debra would trick herself into being happy. Sometimes she was good at it.
The length of sidewalk was piled with fallen leaves that crunched with each footstep. “When I was little, we used to rake up leaves and burn them. I don’t know why but I always loved the smell of burning leaves.”
Jogging next to Julie, Debra listened to the rhythm of their feet. She was grateful to be away from the house where creaks and rattles seemed to speak their own language. Strange things were happening in that house; shoes somehow ended up in the bathtub, scissors ended up in the freezer. She could just hear what Julie would say; that there were no such things as ghosts, there was no such thing as Ed. Greg was growing impatient.
The conversation today was pleasantries, timed to the rhythm of their feet—a superficial camaraderie for the duration of their jog and back to their cars.
After they’d said ‘good-bye’ to each other, Debra sat behind the wheel of her car, counting her change, thinking about what to make for dinner. Greg would have steak. He could have steak every night, no vegetables, no bread, just a hunk of meat. Not her. Not Otto—even if she was short on cash. And she was always short on cash. Six dollars and twenty cents was all she had, barely enough to buy eggs, and milk, and enough gasoline for the next couple days, let alone store-bought meat. She had the choice of starving or washing clothes in the basement. How could she eat freezer meat when she could still see Otto chewing its cud?
Debra drove past the Laundromat, pining to stop there, watching it grow smaller in her rearview mirror. Instead, she drove to a brand new Kroger’s grocery store, where she parked amidst an immeasurable number of cars. The wind bustled flags strung all the way to the road. It was much windier than before, so much so, she fought with the car door to open it.
Inside the new store, aisles seemed to go on forever. She guessed which way the canned tuna fish was, bypassing the fruits and vegetables, skipping aisle after aisle and barreling past Greg’s nemesis—store-bought chocolate chip cookies which would have cost half of everything she had. Reading the aisle markers, she caught a glimpse of Julie who was speed walking down an aisle toward the exit. “Julie,” she shouted, trying to get her attention. “Julie!” Debra raced to catch up with her. “Wait up!”
Julie stopped dead in her tracks, “Deb?” Her face was void of color.
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s here. The stalker. I know it’s him. He’s following me in the store,” Julie said between short breaths, searching with her eyes.
“Where is he?” Debra asked, looking beyond a bread rack and then around a corner. “Are you sure?”
A breath sunk in Julie’s chest. “Believe me. He followed me through every aisle. Just to be sure I skipped one, and so did he. No cart. Nothing in his hands. He’s not buying a single thing here.”
“Maybe it was an awkward coincidence. Maybe this man couldn’t find what he was looking for.”
“That’s what I thought at first. So I went to the other end of the store.” Julie’s eyes flashed. “He followed me again. I walked off on my grocery cart somewhere in the soup section.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s got on some sort of a mechanic’s overall and a black baseball cap. His eyes are dark like he’s wearing eyeliner or something. I think his black mustache is fake. He could be Greek or Italian, maybe Lebanese.”
“I would report him to the store security.”
“What am I going to say, that I’m paranoid? He’s not standing right here. They’d never take me seriously.”
“Come on. Let’s find your cart; I’m ready to check out anyway.” She tossed a can of tuna fish in her cart. They found Julie’s cart and went to the checkout line. Standing in line at the checkout, Debra saw the man just as Julie described. He was right behind Julie as though he were browsing through a magazine.
“That’s him!” Debra pointed right at him. “That’s the man!” She yelled confronting him.
Julie closed her eyes as though she’d made peace with dying, her back to him all the while. The man locked eyes with Debra, penetrating into hers, giving her a horrible feeling that he could fry up her brain, pull it out through her tear duct, and eat it. Motionless, wordless, he held her spellbound for what seemed like an eternity—all within a fraction of a second. He backed away still holding her prisoner in his eyes. Then he released her. Then he was gone—quietly, swiftly. Julie hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, her face etched in dread. It was odd how no one around them had any idea.
“He left. I saw him leave. We need to report him to security.”
“What good would that do? They’ll ask if he threatened me. He didn’t. Now he’s gone.”
“Where are you parked?”
“Not far.” Julie answered.
“Let’s stay together till we get to your car.” They were leaving the store when Debra asked if he looked familiar.
“Kind of. Remember the man from that night in the lounge? The one who wouldn’t leave us alone?” Julie asked, pushing her cart.
“It was dark in there. And he had one of those faces . . . . Do you think it was him?”
“If it was . . . .” Julie stopped halfway to her car. “It could be the answer to both our questions.” The wind swept up Julie’s spiral curls and whipped Debra’s long hair. “I feel like my brain is plugged into a high-tension wire . . . . Where are you parked?” Julie asked.
Debra pointed five double rows away. “Over there. On the other side.”
“Go ahead; I’m fine. He’s gone now,” Julie said. Go ahead. You’ve got things to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, my car’s just up ahead. I’ll see you later. Okay?”
Feeling uneasy about it, Debra left Julie there and headed in the opposite direction. She kept looking back, still watching Julie who was now fumbling in her purse for her keys. Once Debra got to her own car, she scanned the sea of cars. She saw Julie open her trunk. Then she saw him, the man in the black cap, standing next to a white windowless cargo van. He was half-hidden watching Julie load her trunk. Debra stood on her toes, trying to see him better. She stood on the bumpers of the opposite car and hers. He slid open the side panel door where it would have been impossible for Julie to see. But Debra could see clearly; there were no seats in the back which was perfectly suited for kidnapping someone, for doing all sorts of unimaginable things. This very thing had been on the news with a warning not to park near them when a woman’s body had been found in one.
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