“Go inside,” he said to Debra. “You don’t need to see this.”
“Wait. The calico is tame.” Debra picked up the calico.
“Hey. I’m supposed to take all of them. Put it in the bag,” he snapped, holding a sack open.
“No. It took me all summer long to tame her. I’ve been treating her for fungus.”
“Fine, if you want to get disease and shit all over you. Just don’t get that shit near me; I’m not gonna catch any Baganga plague.”
Debra hurried to the garage, holding tight onto Kitty Callie, and locked her inside. But when she came back she saw this person slam a squirming burlap sack into the trunk of his car, a rusted Ford Mercury, on top of a layer of thick black plastic. She saw, too, evidence of empty beer bottles, oil soaked rags, and splats that looked like dried blood. She saw the handle of a hunting knife, a dirty towel wrapped around the blade. And right at the edge of the trunk, right where it latched, she saw a golf club. What was he doing with that? He didn’t look like a man who golfed.
“You don’t have to be so mean,” she said with a cold stare. “Aren’t you supposed to have cages? What happened to the game warden truck?”
He leaned both hands on the bumper, shoulders slumped, and without even looking at her, he spoke in a threatening tone. “I told you to go inside. I don’t need some righteous do-gooder telling me how to do my job. If you have to pick at something,” he faced her, “pick your panties out of your ass.” He raised his voice, “and leave me alone.”
Debra stood there, stunned at first. Now she was fuming. She marched inside without saying a word. If she had learned anything from her mother, she learned to tread lightly in the presence of insanity. She grabbed the Yellow Pages and looked up the telephone number for animal control. Whoever this man was, he didn’t belong here. But when she called, a recording said the department was closed for the weekend. Debra made her way back outside to catch a glimpse of the warden’s nametag with the full intention of reporting him on Monday. Halfway through the doorway, she stopped, wondering if she should call the sheriff. This man was rough and crude and even had a knife in his trunk . . . . Was any of that against the law? She put the idea on hold and went outside. Wailing cat cries came from inside the trunk.
Debra couldn’t see a name anywhere on his jacket. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said.
“It’s Bruce.” He was hiding something behind his back.
She looked over at the trunk and saw five more burlap bag captives, but only a couple of them were moving. She could see what Bruce was trying to hide now, a golf club.
“What did you do?”
“I told you. You don’t need to be out here. I suggest you get your china doll ass back in the house, and let me do my job.”
“Bruce,” she repeated his name to herself in a whisper, and stormed back inside. She thought hard about what to do next. Call the sheriff? An animal rights activist? By the time she would have looked up the numbers and called them, and sat there on hold . . . they were so far away . . . . By the time the sheriff would have gotten there, Bruce would have captured, tortured and killed all the cats and would be long gone.
If she had learned anything from her mother, anything at all, she learned in the presence of insanity, you fade out of the picture and come back with a gun. She retrieved her mother’s rifle and stormed back outside to politely tell him to leave. This time she saw him whap a burlap sack with his golf club.
“Stop right now and leave.” She planted the rifle butt in her shoulder and lined up the sites, aiming right at Bruce. “Get off my property now.” Clutching the rifle, the wooden stock against her cheek, she took her rightful place as her mother’s daughter, shaking quaking inside, not because she was so scared, but because it felt so right.
He stood, glaring at her, squinty-like. “What are you, crazy?”
“I come from a long line of crazy.” She cocked the rifle.
“I don’t take no shit from no one, bitch. Go ahead. Pull the trigger.”
She fired a shot at his feet in the dirt.
“Damn you!”
“I called the sheriff. You better leave before he gets here.”
“You’re a liar. You’re the one he’d arrest. You’re the one who’s threatening me with a rifle.”
“I have the right to bear arms. This is my property. Leave!” She cocked the rifle again.
He stood firm. “You don’t have the balls to do that again.”
She pulled the trigger again. Another shot rang out, flinging dirt and grass at his feet. Her knees shook so badly she thought they would give out.
“Fine,” he shouted, slamming his trunk, closing it. “But I’ll have the Board of Health here on Monday. I’ll make sure of that.” He opened his car door. “I’m pissed now, bitch. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”
By Monday morning, Debra was frantic from worrying all weekend long. Scenes of Bruce, swinging the golf club, hitting a burlap sack, had skipped like a broken record in her head over and over again.
Surely firing a rifle on her own property fell into some sort of gray area—no harm, no foul—no intent to kill. Maybe she really was within her rights. She wasn’t going to mention any of that when she called the Department of Wildlife. Maybe they wouldn’t either. Still, she knew exactly what she would say if they would ask—that she was a woman here all alone. Not another house for miles. That she didn’t know what else to do. That she wasn’t going to shoot him. She just wanted to protect herself.
She finally got a dispatcher on the phone and initiated her complaint.
“. . . Bruce only fills in on weekends. We have had complaints about him before, but he’s harmless, I assure you,” the director told her.
“He was unnecessarily cruel to those animals. Do you know what he was using? He . . . .”
The official interrupted Debra. “What you might think is cruel has to be done to capture the animal in the most efficient way possible.”
“You can’t be serious. He . . . .”
“Can you hold?” There was a click on the line and then she heard violin music. Debra sat down. Five minutes went by, then six. The director came back on the line. “Did he threaten you in any way?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. “No,” Debra said quietly. She was the one who had threatened him. “But he swore at me and . . . .” She felt her face getting red. If the dispatcher could have seen her, she would have known that Debra hadn’t been completely honest. It wasn’t exactly a lie but Debra couldn’t be dishonest at all without it showing in her face.
“I’m scheduling Henry Carmen to come on Wednesday to get the rest of the cats. He’s our official county game warden. I’m sure you won’t have a problem with him,” the dispatcher said sarcastically. “You can take up any issues you have with him.”
“But . . .”
“I’ll put you over to his voice mail.”
Listening to more music, she got a feeling that Bruce hadn’t said anything about the rifle. Why wouldn’t he have said something? She heard a click and then a dial tone. Frustration mounting, she would wait until Wednesday when the real game warden would come.
Chapter 38
Julie entered a small room that smelled of mold and stale Pine Sol. The whitewashed walls seemed to close in around her, closer and closer, until it seemed as though they were sucking the air right out of her lungs.
Flanked by two guards, Kyle came in the room, wearing handcuffs. An armed guard prompted Kyle to sit, then stood by the door. Was this the new reality of what her life had become? She closed her eyes, praying that somehow when she opened them again, that she’d wake up from this nightmare. She looked up. The cold eyes of reality stared back at her, the cold eyes of a murderer. Kyle.
Bail was more money than she’d ever dreamed, more than she could ever pay and the trial date wasn’t set for another four months. The stagnant room with only a table and two wooden chairs was the only suite they would be sharing, m
aybe for the next four months, maybe for the next forty years, maybe until he was sentenced to death.
“Hi,” Julie said above a whisper. “How are you?”
Kyle sat quietly at the table, as if she hadn’t said anything at all.
She waited in hollow silence. “What’s going to happen now?” Julie searched his eyes. “How are you going to plead?”
Saying nothing, his head down, he looked at his hands, examining each finger over and over again.
“Kyle, talk to me. I’m your wife.”
After a long silence, Julie slowly stood up. “Call your boys. They’re worried about you.” She inched toward the door. Beyond the point of being lightheaded, she thought that she might pass out. “I’ll give the number to the guard.”
“I didn’t do it,” Kyle said abruptly. “Someone else killed that guy, some ghoul. I could never do what he did to that man. I’m not kidding. This whole thing was a coincidence.”
“Who are you trying to fool? I was there. I saw how mad you were. It wasn’t a coincidence, you threatened to kill him. He’s dead. You told the detective that you had a girlfriend. Why would you say that? A last ditch alibi?”
“Julie . . . . Listen to me. I didn’t kill anyone. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I was with another woman that night. You have to know, she means nothing to me. But I was with her the night that man was killed. She said her husband would kill her if he knew. I can’t . . . .”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.”
“Why are you so stupid? You believe me because I tell you to.” Kyle shouted, pounding his fists on the table. The guard stepped forward, and Kyle sat still.
Julie could feel the blood rushing from her face. The room spun into a dizzying spinning carnival ride; she thought she was going to vomit.
“Has it sunk in yet? . . . Julie. Are you listening to me?”
A sudden ringing in her ears, Julie watched his mouth move without hearing his words. What was she doing in a marriage like this? He’d never loved her. Why did she think he could? She stared at nothing on a blank wall, unblinking. He was rewriting what really happened. Act two, scene one, casting her as the lead. Maybe he needed her to play along in order to fool everyone else.
“I won’t lie for you.” she said softy, steadily.
“I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to believe me. The lawyer says that he can’t convince a jury that I’m innocent if I can’t convince you that I’m innocent. And I am. You’re going to sit in that courtroom every day. And that jury has to be sympathetic to you. You can’t be forced to testify against me. But that doesn’t stop the prosecution from calling you as a witness, and that doesn’t stop you from voluntarily testifying. You have to believe me. I didn’t do it.”
“What do you think? That you can write that on the chalkboard a hundred times and it’ll make it true? You know as well as I do . . . you killed that man.”
“You still don’t get it. You’re not as smart as I thought you were. What good are you?”
“I don’t mean anything to you. Do I? I’m just the woman you were forced to marry. You don’t think about how I was forced to marry you. Here’s the real truth, you raped me eighteen years ago. I was only fifteen. Now I’m supposed to pretend that you are this great husband?”
“I don’t know where you come up with this shit. You’re selfish. Do you know that? This isn’t about you. It’s about me. I’m the one sitting in jail, not you. And I’m the one they’re gonna execute for something I didn’t do. So if you want to go and take this personal, go ahead. Just get out.”
That never-ending Pine Sol smell had given Julie a headache. She stood up holding onto the table.
All these years . . . “You never loved me,” she said, steadily moving toward the door. “I don’t know why I stayed.”
“Come on, you know how I get,” Kyle said. “Come on Julie. Don’t be so sensitive. I need you.”
“I don’t care. That’s my new mantra—I don’t care. It feels good just to say it. A truck plowed over our mailbox, I don’t care. Your lawyer is going to cost more than our house, I don’t care. You’re never coming home again, not ever.” She smiled a contented looking smile. “I don’t care.”
“Let me out,” she said to the guard.
Julie walked past prison security and down the long corridor convinced that she was never coming back. Passing a drinking fountain, she stopped and waited for a drink where a young woman was bent over, slurping water. The woman wore a tight satin red dress, and her black lace slip stuck out from below the hem. The woman stood up and wiped the water from her mouth with the back of her hand, tugging, clumsily, at her slender waist, on the half-slip as she tried to pull it up. She chewed bubble gum, loudly. Her bright red lips exaggerated every chew.
When she saw Julie, she grinned like she didn’t care who had seen her shifting her slip. And then, in a bold statement, she pulled it down to her ankles in plain view of anyone who might have been watching. “I hate wearing this stupid thing,” she said to Julie, as she flipped it from her ankles, past her black spiked heels, seemingly unembarrassed. She wadded it up and crammed it in her tiger-striped purse.
Somewhat entertained, Julie instinctively glanced around to see if anyone else had seen it, too. “Yeah, they can be a pain,” she said, taking her turn at the drinking fountain.
“You seeing someone here?” the woman asked.
Julie paused to politely respond, and couldn’t help but notice the woman’s appearance. Her youthful face had the features of a Barbie doll, a tad too much makeup. Her orangey-blond hair was in an off-center ponytail and the back of her hairline had been shaved two inches up the base of her neck.
“No, I’m not.” Julie lied. A conversation with a stranger was the last thing she wanted.
“I was going to see someone, but they won’t let me in. I’m not supposed to tell them my real name,” the woman said. “It’s Dee. My real name is Dorothy. You know, like The Wizard of Oz Dorothy. I like Dee better . . . .”
Julie nodded her head, waiting for the opportunity to walk away. “It was nice meeting you. Good luck,” she said.
Dee rambled on, “How come you’re here if you haven’t got no one to see? I wouldn’t come here if I didn’t have to. I hate this place. You know what I mean? Do you work here or something?”
On the verge of being rude, she watched her lips move. She just wanted to be alone.
“Are you okay? You want another drink of water or something?”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Anyways, like I was saying, I came to see Kyle . . . I never could pronounce his last name. He’s been in the news. He’s innocent though. I know he is.”
The only thing flashing in Julie’s mind now was this woman’s face. She looked so young.
“I shouldn’t be here. I made up a fake name. But they wanted to see my I.D.”
Julie played out a scenario in her head. Was this Kyle’s lover? What were the chances? There had to be more than one person here who was named Kyle.
“So anyways, nice talking to you,” Dee turned to leave.
“Nice to meet you,” Julie politely answered, leaving the temptress behind. She stopped at the front desk on her way out. “Excuse me, officer. That young woman I passed in the hall, the one with the orangey hair, who was she here to see?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t give out that information.”
Lost in thought, Julie stepped just outside the main entrance onto the marble steps, buttoning her coat. Freezing wind, icy sleet and snow stung her face, and whisked her dark curls. The drizzle had frozen on the slippery steps, now wet with snow. She slid on the first step and caught her balance. But just three steps from the bottom she slipped on the ice, and fell, landing on her knees at the bottom of the stoop. “Shit!” Her knees bled through her torn nylons.
“Are you all right?” A man, wearing a police uniform, took hold of her elbow and grabbed her around the waist,
holding her tight as he helped her up. A dimple in his square chin, the man smiled, Dudley Do Right style.
“Thank you, officer. These steps are icy.” Snow fell in swaths of white. Drawn into his eyes, almost hypnotized by this simple act of kindness, Julie sputtered, “I’ll be fine. You wouldn’t happen to have a tissue, would you?”
“Let me help you back inside. We’ll get you cleaned up,” he said, lifting her almost off her feet, holding her, tightly, around the waist.
This warm body against hers, she’d never been this physically close to any man except Kyle. She slipped again, but he didn’t let her fall.
“These shoes have no tread at all. I wouldn’t have worn them if I’d known we were in for freezing snow.”
The policeman escorted her back inside and yelled to a fellow officer, “Get some salt on those steps, Bert. They’re getting dangerous.”
He took her to the officer’s break room and told her to sit. There, he moistened a cloth and dabbed carefully at her knee, his hand steadying her leg, caressing her thigh. Julie sat perfectly still, completely submitting to his touch, taking wonder with his every move. It wasn’t like Julie to accept help from a stranger. But she couldn’t ever remember being touched like this.
After the policeman bandaged her knees, he sat next to her closely on the wooden bench. “You look like you could use a friend.” He seemed genuinely concerned. “I saw you on the stairs before you fell. You looked so sad. It can’t be all that bad. Can it?”
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