by J. L. Drake
“You eat meat, right?” Ruth asked, stirring something in a tall white crockpot.
“You’re kidding, right?” I winked at her. “Of course. I love meat,” I added, warming up to Ruth.
“We’re having barbecue, potato salad, and baked beans,” she informed me. It sounded terrific compared to my frozen meals at home. My mouth was watering as I peered down at the thin, sweet-smelling strips of meat in the pot.
Ruth had to be around my mother’s age, but she looked different than my mom. My mother had always been thin with dark features, whereas Ruth was curvy and fair skinned. She looked like a woman who loved to cook, and she came across as motherly. I could see her being one of those overly involved landlords if I didn’t get off on the right foot with her, I realized nervously.
“I didn’t get to tell you much about me the other night…but, I want you to know that I do have a full time job at McDonald’s. It might take me a few months to save up enough money for a car, but I won’t have any problems paying my rent, so don’t worry,” I told her.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, honey,” she said, offering me a sympathetic smile. “I’m not worried about you at all, dear. You seem like an honest gal.” She gave me a small wink. “Do you have family around here?” I was prepared for questions about my job and financial circumstances, but I wasn’t prepared for personal questions.
“Ummm…no,” I said. I figured my best bet was to stick with my original lie, the one I’d created in Albuquerque. “My family is from New Mexico. My parents died when I was young, and I grew up in foster care. We traveled a lot, my parents and me, when they were alive that is…and Flocksdale is a place I remember from childhood. For some reason, I wanted to come here when I was of age and could leave the foster care system; I guess I’m just drawn to this town.” I spit the story out in a flurry of nervous, rambling sentences.
Ruth was stirring the barbecue in its pot, but she stopped promptly, setting down the ladle beside it. She looked at me sorrowfully. After repeating the lie so many times, I’d gotten used to the pitiful looks.
“What happened to your mother and father? I don’t mean to pry…”
“It was a drug overdose,” I admitted. I’d gotten so used to telling this story that it flowed out with ease. One time at the rehab clinic, I even went so far as to describe my “dead” parents’ tombstones after a peculiar, inappropriate patient asked me to in group.
I hadn’t planned on being so forthcoming with Ruth however, when it came to the details of my lie. After all, this was my landlord, not my therapist at the unit. I’d never seriously considered telling anyone the truth, except Remy, of course. Look how well that turned out, I reminded myself. Not only did I not want to share my real background with Ruth, but I didn’t want to share my make believe back story either. After all, we’re not really going to be friends.
“I know all about living with drug addicts,” Ruth said, surprising me. “You mean…Charlie?” I asked disbelievingly. The man hadn’t said a single word to me yet, but he didn’t strike me as an active user. I know them when I see them, and Charlie wasn’t an addict.
“No, not Charlie. Don’t get me wrong, Charlie and I aren’t perfect. We used to drink and dabble in some recreational drugs when we were young, but not anymore. That was a long time ago. I’m talking about my sons,” she said softly, turning back to stir the saucy meat.
“Did your sons overdose, too?” I stepped toward the sad woman. She shook her head, swallowing so hard I could hear the lump in her throat.
“My oldest son died in a freak accident. He fell off somebody’s roof. But he was high as a kite when it happened, so of course, I still blame the drugs. I always had trouble with him, more so than with my youngest. They had different dads, you see…”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said quietly. My parents weren’t really dead, but I certainly understood the impact of addiction and what it felt like to lose a family member. My parents may not have really passed away, but they were dead to me, in a sense. I’d lost them so long ago…
I thought about Claire, pushing aside thoughts of her bloody face and limp body on the floor as I looked down through those grates. I thought about Remy, who I felt pretty sure had died of an overdose too. I even thought about Miss Ally’s poor teenage daughter, Hannah. So much death…I felt sorry for my landlord, Ruth. She seemed so nice, and to think of her losing her child made my heart ache.
Ruth went on, “My youngest son also has some problems, but he has a job at a plumbing company now and he’s staying in one of my rental houses. He’s doing well, which makes me happy,” she said, perking up.
I helped her set the table, and she filled our plates with the steaming hot food. Charlie came in from the porch and took a seat at the head of the table. He seemed pleasant, but quiet. I tried to force myself to eat slowly, but it was hard to do when the food was so tasty. It was the best thing I’d eaten in years, and it reminded me of my mother’s home cooking. My foster mom, Baylor, and the cafeteria ladies at Saint Mary’s, had been pretty decent cooks too, but there was no comparison to this. The barbecue melted in my mouth.
“It’s so good,” I said, smiling up at the couple. When I cleaned my plate, Ruth filled it with another round of barbecue and potato salad. I didn’t protest. I ate all of it. Afterward, Ruth filled small Tupperware containers with the leftovers and bagged them up for me. This woman truly was a saint. The saint from Saints Road, I thought goofily, drunk from all of the delicious food. I was suddenly glad I’d come over to Ruth’s for dinner.
I helped Ruth with the dishes, standing beside her as I dried them off with a polka dotted dish towel. Again, I thought about my own mother, and how doing any activity with her, even something as frivolous as dish washing, would have seemed like a dream come true…
My mother always hated doing dishes. Whenever she heard someone talking about dishwashers and bragging about their latest model, she would retort, “Well, there’s a dishwasher in my house too. Me!” Then she’d laugh like a hyena, as though it were the funniest joke in the world. If I ever get to go back home, I’m going to wash all of my mom’s dishes for the rest of my life, I decided suddenly. God knows I owed it to her, considering all I’d put her through.
As Ruth and I were finishing up the last of the plates, she asked, “Do you have any photographs of your mother and father?” I shook my head, being honest for once.
“I left them all behind when I went to the foster home. I wish I did have some. Do you have any pictures of your sons?” I asked, knowing that this woman, of course, had plenty of photos of her family. She seemed like the type of mom that would snap photos any chance she got.
Ruth nodded and dried her hands, eager to show me the pictures. She led me into a cozy, sunken living room, where there was a beautiful hutch filled with silver and gold-framed photographs. I stepped in for a closer view.
“There the boys are together, when they were young,” she said, pointing to a photo of two dirty-faced boys perched on their bicycles, grinning mischievously. On the shelf above it was a photo of them as teenagers, and that was the one I couldn’t remove my eyes from. Two boys, one blond and one dark-haired, perched side by side beneath a paper birch tree. They wore half-smiles with their arms hung limply at their sides, obviously not too thrilled to have their picture taken. My guess is that their mother coerced them into having it taken. My eyes were glued to the picture of the boys.
“What are their names?” I asked tightly, staring intensely at the photos before me.
“James and Zachary. James is the oldest, the one who died…”
Ruth kept on talking, but I couldn’t hear her anymore. The room was spinning. The boys in the photograph were the boys who had identified themselves as Joey and Zeke at the plaza nearly eight years ago.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. I couldn’t take the chance of blowing my cover just yet. “This is the one who died?” I asked, tapping my finger on a portrait of the boy w
ho called himself Joey, the one who had given me my first kiss.
“That’s him. That’s my James,” Ruth said breathlessly, as though she hadn’t looked at the pictures herself in a while. This one was a school picture, probably taken when he was ten. Maybe he wasn’t evil quite yet at this age, I considered. No, I think him and all of the monsters at the house of horrors were born evil, I concluded.
I didn’t care about this woman’s feelings anymore. All I cared about was getting answers. “Your youngest son, Zachary…where does he live again?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“About a mile from here, on Weston Street, in one of my rental houses,” she answered plainly.
“You said the boys had two different fathers. Which one of them was your husband Charlie’s son?” I asked.
“Neither,” she said, shaking her head. “I got with Charlie after their fathers were out of the picture.”
“Does Zachary live alone?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the photo.
If Ruth thought my line of questioning was odd, she didn’t let on. “Yes. He lives all by himself, unfortunately. God knows he could use a good girl in his life. But lucky for him, he has lots of family nearby. I own most of the houses on that street, and he has an aunt and several cousins that live close by.”
“I have to go,” I said abruptly, heading for the door. “Thanks for the meal,” I called back over my shoulder to Ruth.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” asked a man’s voice from behind me. I froze, standing in front of the door with my back to him. It was the first time I’d heard Charlie speak, and I was certain that I’d heard his voice before. Was it possible that I heard him in the darkness of the house of horrors? I suddenly felt a wave of horror flowing through my entire body, and all I wanted to do was run far away from these people.
Chapter 34
Ruth wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was adamant that a girl my age should not be walking the streets of Flocksdale in the dark alone, even if my house was only two streets away. If she thought twenty-one was too young to be in this neighborhood alone, I wondered what she would think about my thirteen year old self out there, with her darling sons.
I wanted to gouge their eyes out. But there was nothing I could do but accept the hefty bag of leftovers and climb in the Oldsmobile, taking a seat next to Charlie. We were only minutes away from my house, but he’d become surprisingly chatty. He looked at me differently now that we were alone—he had the eyes of a predator.
I didn’t get the sense that he recognized me, but I certainly recognized him now that I’d heard his voice. I was an adult now and I looked completely different, but it wasn’t only that. If this man “knew” me, then he knew me intimately, and I tried to imagine his voice in that dark room. Was he one of those men? Is that why the sound of his voice brought chills down my spine and hit me with an undeniable sense of unease? I was certain he had been.
I wasn’t exactly sure what role this man played in my kidnapping at the house of horrors, but I knew one thing for certain: at some point during my captivity, this man had been there in that horrible place. His voice brought back images and sensations I’d long since forgotten. I tried to shake them away, taking in slow, timed breaths.
I stared out the window, answering his vague questions about my life with one or two word responses. I couldn’t wait to get away from this man and into the safety of my home.
I’d planned on scoping out the neighborhood tonight, but now I needed some time to regroup. My courage was shaken and my head was spinning with the new bits of information I’d received.
“Thanks for the ride home and for dinner,” I said stiffly as he pulled into my driveway. I forced myself to smile at him before I got out.
He smiled back at me creepily. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you in?” he asked.
“I’m positive,” I said, closing the car door and shutting him up.
Was I imagining a sinister look in his eye or was it all in my head? I forced myself to walk—not run—up to the door of the rental house. As soon as I was in, I locked it tightly behind me. I slid to the floor, gasping for air. He couldn’t possibly recognize me, could he? After all, he’d been in the dark too…surely he didn’t recognize my face…
Was I ready for this? Could I face the people who hurt me? Did I have the guts? After tonight, I wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 35
After my breathing and heart rate slowed, I used my arm to swipe the empty grocery bags and lease papers off my dining table. I walked in the kitchen. Searched for a pen or pencil in one of its drawers. Most of them were empty, but the drawer beneath where the microwave sat held half a dozen writing instruments and a thick pad of lined paper.
I carried my writing utensils to the table. Sat down, then got back got up, closing all of the blinds and curtains securely. I peeked through the slats of the blinds, making sure Charlie was long gone. I started making a small map of the streets surrounding the skating rink. It was time to review the facts.
My street, Saints Road, was two streets behind the skating rink. Nearly seven years ago, I was walking on this same road, supposedly going to Joey’s—real name James—mom and stepdad’s house, who also would have been Zeke’s—real name Zach—mom and stepdad since they were apparently brothers. James’/Zach’s stepdad—’Jed’—picked us up in a limo. I made a line with my street’s name on it, putting a star by my house, and then another star in the middle of the road with ‘Jed’ written next to it, noting the spot where he’d picked us up in the limousine.
After that, we rode in the limo to the end of the street, crossed a main road, and drove three blocks over to an adjoining neighborhood. We stopped at “Jeanna’s house,” but I wasn’t sure of the street name and it supposedly wasn’t even her house. I drew small lines, making notes of my meeting with Jeanna, and drew a star where I thought the house was located.
We left Jeanna’s and returned to the skating rink, which is where I was kidnapped. I pondered, chewing on the pencil’s eraser. From there, I was knocked unconscious and woke up in an unknown location. The location of my house of horrors was a big question mark. The most important question mark. I drew a huge mark in the blank space above the roads. I gnawed away at the pencil, mulling over the possible routes again in my mind.
I thought about the ride out of there with the blindfold on, and how I’d counted approximately ten minutes. The dirt road I was dropped off on was between my street and Ruth and Charlie’s house on Merribeth Avenue. I marked their house with an X on Merribeth, and wrote their names next to it on my map. I also wrote down Weston Street, which is where Zach—formerly known as Zeke—supposedly lived, according to Ruth. I also made small notations next to Zach and Ruth’s names, noting that they were mother and son.
I thought about my conversation with Ruth. What was the name of that street she said Zach lived on? Weston…
Ruth said that Zach lived on Weston Street now, I pondered. I wasn’t sure where Weston was, so I didn’t write anything on my actual makeshift map. James—formerly known as Joey—was dead. I tried to muster up some sort of sympathy for the guy, as I imagined him lying on the ground with a bent up neck after falling to his death from a roof top. Serves him right, I thought bitterly. “Some people just get what they deserve,” I remarked aloud to myself.
I tapped the pencil on the table top furiously, staring down at the pathetic map. I didn’t know the names of most of the streets, and even the ones I did, I wasn’t sure how much of this knowledge was useful to my search. I didn’t quite know how to connect the dots just yet.
I pushed the map aside and got a new piece of paper. I started writing down everyone’s name that was or could have been involved: James who was now deceased, Zach who lived on Weston Street—Ruth was his mother but his father was unknown. And then there was Jed. What did I really know about him, besides the fact he drove the limo? His address was unknown, as well as his relationship with the other suspects. Then Jeann
a—unknown location, unknown relation to others. Jeanna’s boyfriend Garrett—also unknown info—the heavyset woman who attacked Claire was also a big question mark.
The random men with their random faces—a big unknown. Charlie, Ruth’s husband on Merribeth Avenue. And last but not least, there was Ruth—James and Zach’s mother. Her role in my kidnapping/assault wasn’t clear. I tapped at the names with my pencil pensively. Stared at my list of names and info.
There was one thing all of the people on the list seemed to have in common besides me. All of them either were, or claimed to be, related. James and Zach were half-brothers. Ruth was their mother and Charlie was their stepfather. Jed was also supposedly a stepfather, and they called Jeanna their aunt.
Perhaps Charlie wasn’t their stepfather thirteen years ago, I considered, trying to sort through the details in my mind. Ruth said that both boys had different fathers. Maybe Jed was one of their fathers. But then where did Jeanna fit in? Was she truly one, or both, of the boys’ aunt? Or had that just been another bizarre lie in a long list of many?
Since Ruth owns this house, and it’s on the road they claimed to have lived on eight years ago, was it possible that this house was where the boys lived back then? An image suddenly flickered in my mind, something I’d seen this morning—a brief glimpse of something while perching on the counter and putting that dye on my head.
Right outside the bathroom doorframe, I’d seen pale remnants of a height measurement chart drawn on the wall upstairs. At the time, I’d thought it was odd that one of Ruth’s renters would write on a wall in a house they didn’t own. But what if it was Ruth’s family that originally lived here?
I charged up the stairs, adrenaline surging through my veins. Flashes of what I’d seen on the wall this morning.