Cold Woods

by Karen Katchur

  “Okay,” Dannie said. “Then throw this on.” She tossed a flannel shirt to her. “Everything in this house is old and dusty. I don’t want you to ruin something so pretty.”

  Trisha tugged the flannel on over the sweater. She didn’t care whether her shirt got dirty, but it seemed important to Dannie, since this was the second time she’d asked her to cover up.

  “Look at this,” Dannie said and passed a small notebook to her. It was a “slam book,” where you’d write your name at the top of the page, and your classmates would write one word about you underneath. “What possessed us to expose ourselves to such cruelty?”

  Trisha shrugged, stopped on the page with Jeff’s name, the boy who had given Dannie a titty twister at the quarry. Creep. A-hole. Dickwad. She continued flipping through the notebook looking for Scott’s name. Sometimes when she was sober long enough to remember who she was, where she came from, she’d think of him, his dark hair glistening under the bright sun, the sweat clinging to his tanned chest. She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d looked at her, the innocence and longing in his eyes. He’d believed she’d been worthy of love. No man had ever looked at her that way again. But what Scott hadn’t known was that she’d already been damaged by then. She’d already been broken beyond repair before she’d ever hit puberty.

  Dannie pulled clothes out of the dresser drawers and shoved them in garbage bags, not bothering to sort them. Trisha was about to close the slam book, never finding Scott’s page, but stopped when she found her own name. Whore. Bitch. Tramp. Perfect. She recognized the handwriting in the last comment. Carlyn’s voice carried up the stairs. She was back with more boxes.

  Trisha closed the slam book and tossed it in the trash.

  For the next hour, they filled garbage bags with clothes, old notebooks, and knickknacks. Items Dannie had decided to keep—a Magic 8 Ball and Rubik’s Cube for her girls, her high school diploma, a crucifix hanging on the wall by her bed—were put in a separate box and set aside.

  Once everything in Dannie’s old room was packed away, the piles organized into donations, keepsakes, trash, they headed to Evelyn’s bedroom. Trisha walked in first, familiar with the layout of the house, the master bedroom an exact replica of her own mother’s room except that Evelyn’s dresser was pushed into the far corner rather than up against the center of the wall. The smell of greasy hair and oily skin—what Trisha thought of as Evelyn’s smell—permeated the air. She resisted the urge to open a window. It was cold outside. They’d gotten six inches of snow overnight. Trisha hadn’t seen that much snow since she’d left Pennsylvania. They’d get the occasional dusting in Vegas, only to have it turn into a “rain event.” Since when was weather considered an event? But late last night when the sky rained white, she’d rushed into the street, head tilted, arms spread wide. She reveled in the taste and feel of snowflakes on her lips and eyelashes, in her hair, soaking her bare feet. She’d been drunk. Her mother had watched her from the opened door in silence.

  She pulled the curtains aside to look at the snow-covered trees: one more thing she’d taken for granted when she’d lived here. Trees, real trees in her mind, were ones that had bare branches in winter and brightly colored leaves in autumn, unlike the palm trees on the Strip, which stayed the same year-round. “I missed the snow, the changing seasons,” she said and turned to find Dannie standing in the doorway, crying in her hands.

  Trisha let the curtain fall.

  “I miss her,” Dannie said.

  Trisha nodded.

  “It just hurts so much,” Dannie said.

  Dannie had a way of bringing out Trisha’s softer side. Even now, her tears penetrated Trisha’s hardened heart.

  “I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,” Dannie said.

  Trisha didn’t know that kind of love and loss, but she found herself reaching for Dannie. “Come here.” She pulled her onto the bed, lay down next to her. Evelyn’s scent on the sheets lingered between them. She forced herself not to move her arm out from under Dannie’s elbow. She had to tell herself Dannie wouldn’t lash out, strike her. It was okay to be close to another person, to lie next to them and not be afraid. “I suck at this kind of stuff, you know,” she said.

  Dannie smiled. “I know,” she said. “I remember.”

  “Do you? Do you remember how we used to be?”

  “I remember how you loved me once and stood up for me at a time in my life when I was most vulnerable,” Dannie said.

  Trisha opened her mouth to agree but then closed it. Her chest filled with anger, a certain rage. Then why did you stop being my friend? Why did you stop loving me?

  She wanted to scream, to accuse Dannie of leaving her when she’d needed her the most. But it wasn’t the time or place to unleash what was inside of her. It didn’t serve her bigger purpose, her reason for being here in the first place. Her voice was steady, calm, when she said, “It’s going to take some time to get through this.” She waved her hand around the room. “And it’s going to take some time to get through this too.” She pointed to her chest, her heart.

  Dannie’s tears dribbled down the side of her face and onto the pillow.

  “Close your eyes,” Trisha instructed. “Close your eyes and leave this place for a while. Take a break from the pain. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come back.”

  Dannie nodded, closed her eyes. “You don’t suck at this at all,” she said.

  Trisha lay on the bed next to Dannie, listened to the slow breathing of her sleep. She picked at her skin on her wrist, her flesh crawling with the longing for a drink. She’d lost track of time. The chatter from downstairs had been intermittent, the buzz of busyness and nothing more.

  Sometime later Dannie rubbed her eyes, yawned. “I must’ve dozed off,” she said, turned to look at Trisha.

  “You did.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I wanted to be home when the girls got home from school.” Dannie pulled her phone from her pocket.

  Checking the time? Text messages from her kids? Her husband? Trisha could only guess. “How old are they?” she asked.

  Dannie shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Marie is fifteen, and Jenny is seventeen. Jenny wants to go to college in Virginia next fall. I can’t believe she’ll be leaving. It’s going to be so weird not having her home. They’re my whole world, you know? I stayed home with them since they were babies. I loved every minute of it. Well, not every minute. But I’m happy being at home. I wanted to give them a better life than what our mothers were able to give us.”

  “And did you?”

  “Give them a better life? I think so. I mean, yeah, I did.”

  “That’s great, Dannie. It is,” she said and found she meant it. “Let me ask you something. Would you do anything for your girls? Anything at all?”

  “Of course. You know I would,” Dannie said.

  “I’m happy to hear you say that.”

  “Why? What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not getting at anything.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, really, I’m not,” she said. “It just makes me glad you’re a good mom. I always thought you would be.”

  “There you are,” Carlyn said and entered the room.

  Dannie sat up, smoothed her shirt, swung her legs off the bed, put her back to Trisha.

  “The kitchen’s finished. We left some dishes on the counter for you to go through. There might be a few things you want to keep,” Carlyn said.

  “Sure. Okay.” Dannie got up.

  Trisha pulled herself up, too, straightened the front of the flannel shirt that hung to her knees.

  “I better get to it,” Dannie said and looked over her shoulder at Trisha before walking out of the room.

  “What’s going on?” Carlyn crossed her arms. “What were you two doing?”

  “Why?” Trisha leaned in close, breathed in Carlyn’s familiar scent. “Jealous?”

  CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

  OCTOBER 1986

  Trisha watched Carlyn run down the trail through the woods. Dannie took off after her, slow and clumsy in Dannie’s way of running, which wasn’t really running at all but something more like a labored jog.

  Scott moved behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on the top of her shoulder. “Do you want to go after your friends?” he asked.

  He was giving her an out if she wanted one. She’d convinced herself the last few weeks that he wasn’t her boyfriend. She’d insisted on not calling him that. She didn’t want a boyfriend, never wanted a boyfriend. But he was good to her. And now, he was being so considerate of her feelings. A part of her loved him for it and hated him for it too.

  “No, it’s fine,” she said. Her friends were going to talk. Dannie was going to tell Carlyn what had happened with Lester. And Trisha didn’t want to be there. They’d have questions Trisha was too afraid to answer. And what if they blamed her? Was it her fault for allowing him to get close to her friend?

  Scott grabbed a beer from the six-pack and took Trisha’s hand. She let him lead her to an area away from the rock where the ground was flat and covered in a blanket of leaves. They sat, and the dampness of the earth bled through her jeans onto her bottom and the back of her legs. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She knew what he wanted from her, what all boys wanted from her.

  Was this all she was worth?

  They both kept their eyes straight ahead, stared into the woods, the shadows eating the light from the ground as the sun set. The cool air sent goose bumps up and down her arms.

  “You know I like you, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I know.” She turned to look at him.

  He turned to look at her, too, and before she thought about what she was doing, she let him kiss her. His lips were soft and moist, his tongue laced with beer. She didn’t care for the bitterness of it, but her own mouth tasted the same.

  They continued kissing, lying back on the leaves, the earth now cool on her back as well as her legs. Scott rolled on top of her, his hands fumbling under her shirt, pushing her bra aside. She came alive under his touch, rising up to meet his palm. She shouldn’t like it as much as she did. It wasn’t right. Dirty. She was dirty. A “flirty, dirty girl,” Lester had called her.

  Scott pressed his hips against her.

  “Stop,” she said.

  “What?” He continued kissing her, his hands roaming her body.

  “I said stop!” she yelled and pushed him away.

  He sprang off her, his hands raised as though she were holding him at gunpoint. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you. I didn’t mean to do anything you didn’t want to do.” He kept babbling, apologizing over and over again. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

  “Shut up,” she said and yanked her shirt down. “Just shut up, Scott!” She crossed her arms, covered her chest; her twisted bra cut into her armpit. She wasn’t mad at Scott. He didn’t do anything wrong. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to touch her. But she couldn’t let him. What was wrong with her?

  He knelt in front of her, rested his hand on her forearm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She wiped her nose. “You didn’t hurt me, okay? It’s not you.”

  “Then what is it?” he asked.

  “It’s just . . . I’m not . . . I’m not . . .” How could she explain it? She was ruined, damaged goods. “Just forget it.”

  “I don’t want to forget it. Tell me, Trisha. You can tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” She rocked, pressed her knees tightly to her chest. “You just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?” he asked, sounding hurt. “What don’t I get? Talk to me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What is it?” He put his hand on her shoulder, coming closer; he slid his arm around her.

  “I can’t, okay. I can’t do it with you.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. We don’t have to do anything.”

  She shook her head. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all. “Stop being so nice to me,” she said.

  He stared at her, the concern on his face clear in the waning light. “What did he do to you?” he asked. When she wouldn’t answer him, he pulled her close, and in a soft voice he whispered, “I swear I’ll kill him if he ever puts his hands on you again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sharon Haines smoked. Parker had smelled cigarettes on her breath, in the air, on the furniture’s upholstery. It was embedded in the walls, the floors, the nuts and bolts of her house. He’d bet she’d been a smoker most of her life. She hadn’t smoked in front of him, but she’d carried a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of her flannel shirt. The ashtray had been hidden in another room, possibly the kitchen. He had no idea what brand of cigarettes she smoked or what kind of lighter she used. It was the lighter he was particularly interested in. She could carry a personalized lighter, a Zippo maybe, or she could use the disposable kind, like a Bic.

  Sharon was still on his mind when he pulled into the parking lot of the field station. The brick building squatted in the middle of a wide-open grass-covered lot. Anyone could see the comings and goings of the officers and visitors. It left Parker with an uneasy feeling of being exposed, a walking target without cover. He parked next to the building. What they needed were a few large trees to offer some protection, provide some shade in the summer months. He entered through the side door. The interior was a smattering of cubicles, old desks covered with paperwork, computers. The interview rooms were on the opposite side. The lobby was in the front of the building, where Sharmaine held her own kind of court. The sergeant’s office was in the corner, the blinds closed. Geena walked in behind him.

  After talking with Sharon and her daughter, Parker and Geena had gone door-to-door up and down Second Street, looking for neighbors who might’ve remembered Lester. A few old-timers were still around. The ones they’d talked to said Lester had kept to himself mostly. A couple of them had brought up the fact that he’d fought with his wife, had probably drunk too much, but it had been none of their business. Yet, they’d mentioned it.

  Lester’s other neighbors, including Mrs. Sherwood, who had lived on the other side of the semiattached house, were deceased. Others had moved away, no forwarding address. A bunch of new families lived on the street now, moved in several years after Lester had disappeared.

  “I guess this desk is as good as any,” Geena said and took off her jacket, sat in the chair at one of the empty cubicles, her sidearm jutting from her hip.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said and picked up the coffeepot, looked at the sludge on the bottom. “Although you’ll want to bring in your own coffee, if you drink it.”

  “Noted,” she said. “What’s next?” she asked.

  “I want to stop by the place where Lester was last employed, check it out, see if anybody is still around.”

  “Okay. What are your thoughts on the mother-daughter duo?”

  “Something doesn’t add up.” He hadn’t worked out what exactly.

  “That was my feeling too,” she said.

  He stopped at his desk, pushed some paperwork around, checked for messages. “I think we should go back and have a chat with Linda Walsh.” Her name was listed as someone the police had talked to, but she hadn’t been home on their first pass through the neighborhood.

  “We can try her on the way back, if there’s time.” Geena grabbed her jacket. She knocked on their sergeant’s window now that the blinds were open. She poked her head in his office, checked in, let him know she was there, and they were on their way to Easton to check out Cal’s Carpets and Flooring.

  They weren’t two miles from the station when Geena turned her head away from Parker, looked out the passenger-side window. “You know why you got the cold woods, don’t you?”

  “Cold woods?”

  “That’s what I’m calling the case,” she said
. “Because we had to sit in the freezing-cold woods, all because Sayres is ticked at you.”

  “So you named it after me?” When would he get to name a case? His last one had been named “river bodies” before he’d taken it over.

  She shrugged. “But honestly,” she said. “You got this one because the body wasn’t fresh.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I hear stuff. Sometimes the guys at headquarters ignore me, being the only woman, and they don’t always include me in their conversations. But it doesn’t mean I don’t overhear everything they’re saying.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “They’re concerned about how you’re coping.”

  “Who’s ‘they’? The lieutenant? You?”

  Geena shrugged. “This job’s not easy. And seeing somebody blow their brains out,” she said. “That’s not easy.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, not wanting to discuss it. His father had asked him a similar question. How are you doing, son? He’d wanted Parker to leave the motorcycle gang alone. When Parker had been a kid, the gang members had shown up at his house, banged on the door of his father’s medical practice with knife wounds, busted hands, and broken bones. His father had treated them, but he’d also been afraid of them. Parker had thought if he solved the case against the same gang members, his father would’ve been proud of him, but instead, he’d gotten the impression he’d somehow disappointed him.

  Geena must’ve picked up on Parker’s reluctance to talk about it, because she was quiet the rest of the ride to Easton. The radio crackled with static. She checked her phone. Salt and cinders kicked up from the tires, melting the snow that had covered the roadways overnight. Parker pulled into the entrance of a strip mall and what was the new location for Cal’s Carpets and Flooring.