CHAPTER FOUR
“Last night, a stranger to everyone
here was cruising up and down this cul-de-sac,” the handsome cop
announced. “This man was trying to determine which one of your
homes would be the easiest to break into.”
Everyone in the room fell silent. They
stopped passing around the tray of cookies. The policeman had them
hanging on his next words.
Molly guessed he was about thirty-five.
He had short, chestnut-colored hair and pale green eyes. Tall and
athletically lean, he looked sexy in his black suit and a blue
shirt with the collar open. He was probably a big hit with all the
bored, lonely housewives at Neighborhood Watch meetings like this
one.
Hands in his pockets, he stood in front
of the Hahns’ fireplace, above which hung a large studio portrait
of the Hahn family: Jeremy and Lynette and their kids, Courtney,
seventeen, Carson, eight, and Dakota, five. They were in front of a
forest backdrop. Jeremy and Carson had matching blazers, and the
girls were decked out in their yacht-club-dinner best. It was odd
to see their frozen smiles in the portrait while the police officer
made such a disturbing announcement.
“This stranger checked out every house
on the block,” the cop continued. “He made observations of who was
home and who wasn’t, how well-lit your backyards were, and whether
or not you had home security systems. . . .”
The residents of Willow Tree Court were
gathered in the Hahns’ family room for the down-to-business portion
of the Neighborhood Watch potluck. Molly sat next to Henry
Cad-well, a stocky forty-five-year-old work-at-home architect, who
lived on the other side of a vacant lot next door to her and Jeff.
Henry and his partner, a chiropractor named Frank, had an adopted
daughter in Erin’s class, Su-Li. Hank and
Frank, Chris called them. They were moving soon, and Molly
didn’t want to think about it. Henry was her only real friend on
the block. Among this clique, she and Henry were the outsiders.
Perhaps that was why they sat in folding chairs while everyone else
was ensconced on the sofa or in a cushioned easy
chair.
Occupying the chair was Mrs. Kim
Nguyen, the quiet, middle-aged, not-altogether-friendly neighbor at
the end of the cul-de-sac—on the other side of Hank and Frank. At
least, she wasn’t too friendly with Molly. Then again, they’d only
met a few times. Molly had asked her earlier—at the buffet table—if
she and Dr. Nguyen had had a visitor this morning, someone driving
a blue minivan. “I guess I’m already starting to
neighborhood-watch,” Molly had explained, trying to make light of
it.
Mrs. Nguyen had frowned. “My friend
picking us up at airport,” she’d explained in her fractured
English. “She driving blue van.”
Molly had been relieved to hear that.
Yet Mrs. Nguyen had seemed annoyed by the question. Molly had asked
how long she and Dr. Nguyen would be in town.
“Three days,” Mrs. Nguyen had replied
curtly. Then she’d moved over to the other end of the buffet table,
where Angela had stood.
A few minutes later, Molly had seen
Mrs. Nguyen and Angela laughing about something.
Angela had the middle spot on the
couch, with her gal pals, Lynette Hahn and Kay Garvey, on either
side of her. Her mink-colored hair was perfectly styled, but she’d
laid the makeup on a bit thick. Plus she was slightly
over-dressed—in black pants and a black V-neck sweater with a
shimmering silver striped weave. Her girlfriends, Lynette and Kay,
had raved about how gorgeous she looked, and they wanted to hear
all about the man in her life—the one with the beautiful house on a
cul-de-sac in Bellevue. Angela had brought a quiche to the
party—along with a bit of attitude.
“Hi, Molly,” she’d said to her coolly.
“You look so pretty—but then, you always do. I love your blouse.”
Molly had been in the middle of thanking her and was about to
return the phony compliment when Angela had excused herself to
instruct Lynette on how to heat up the quiche. That was the extent
of their conversation so far, after ninety minutes.
While grazing around the buffet table
earlier, Angela, Lynette, and Kay had whispered about Ray Corson’s
murder. “I knew something like that would eventually happen,”
Lynette had concluded. “You have to wonder what he was doing in
that park so late at night. He went there looking for trouble, and
he found it.”
Molly had steered clear of the
conversation.
The Toll House cookies she’d baked that
morning were on a plate in a hard-to-reach spot on the buffet
table. Though Lynette knew she was bringing chocolate chip cookies,
she’d baked a batch herself. “I thought you might forget or bring
store-bought,” Lynette had cheerfully explained. “And besides, I
have to admit, I make the best chocolate chip cookies in the
universe.”
Molly hated Lynette. She had this phony
perkiness to her—like a sitcom mom moonlighting in a commercial for
deodorant. She was just a little too self-satisfied cute. She had a
slim, tennis-taut figure, and frosted brunette hair with bangs. She
seemed to think of herself as Supermom! But
her daughter Courtney was shallow and selfish, and the two younger
kids were utter brats. On several occasions, Molly had spotted
Carson and Dakota and their friends throwing dirt balls at passing
cars from an abandoned lot at the start of the cul-de-sac. She’d
tried to tell Lynette about it, but Supermom was in total denial:
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Molly.” Her kids
could do no wrong. For a while, Lynette had talked about suing a
local restaurant, where the owner had had the unmitigated gall to
ask if her children could please use their quiet voices so as not
to disturb the other patrons.
Madison’s mom was rather plain, with
blond hair and a pale complexion. She was friendly enough when
Lynette and Angela weren’t around. But Molly was dead certain Kay
talked behind her back to the other two. They seemed to regard her
as this flaky, vapid successor to Angela—and only a temporary one
at that.
And it hurt.
“Why do you care what those bitches
think of you?” Henry had asked her at one point.
Molly couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe
it was because she was living in their friend’s house, or because
their daughters were in Chris’s class. Once Henry moved away, she
wouldn’t have any friends on the block. He was her only friend in
Seattle.
“Your cookies are infinitely better
than Squeaky’s,” Henry had whispered in her ear—after sampling one
of Lynette’s from the tray being passed around the family room.
Unbeknownst to Lynette, he called her Squeaky—after Lynette
“Squeaky” Fromme, the one-time Manson follower who tried to
assassinate Gerald Ford.
The detective had missed the potluck
brunch portion of the proceedings earlier. Lynette had gotten up to
present him to the group. She’d given a long, sickeningly cute
introduction, which included a story about how her dear, sweet
Dakota had once mistaken a guard at the zoo for a policeman
(“Is he going to arrest the elephant,
Mommy?”). Then she’d finally called on their guest speaker,
Detective Chet Blazevich.
Molly could tell her neighbors were
still wondering about this stranger who had been cruising around
their cul-de-sac last night, studying the lay of the
land.
“Didn’t any one of you notice a dark
green Toyota Camry going up and down your block around eight
o’clock?” Detective Blazevich asked, with a hint of a
smile.
Angela and her friends glanced at each
other and shrugged.
Molly cleared her throat, and half
raised her hand. “Do you drive a dark green
Toyota Camry, Detective?”
He smiled and nodded. “Very good,
Ms.—?”
Molly tried to ignore Angela out of the
corner of her eye. She hesitated. “Dennehy.”
“Ms. Dennehy is correct,” Blazevich
announced. “I scoped out your cul-de-sac last night, and found some
things that might make you vulnerable to a break-in—just the kind
of stuff a burglar would look for. . . .”
Molly glanced over at Angela and her
pals on the sofa. Lynette shot her a look, and then whispered
something in Angela’s ear.
Molly turned away—just as Henry leaned
in close to her. “Hell, if I knew this hunk was driving around our
block, looking to break in to somebody’s home, I’d have left the
front door open.”
Molly patted his knee and then turned
her attention to Chet Blazevich. She felt a bit sorry for him. As
he explained about their need for more streetlights and recommended
spotlights for their back and side yards, the trio on the couch
were still whispering to one another. Mrs. Nguyen pulled out some
knitting and went to work on an ugly pink and maroon scarf—or maybe
it was a sweater, Molly couldn’t tell for sure. Blazevich had to
talk loudly over the clink, clink, clink of
her knitting needles. Then Henry’s cell phone rang, and he went to
talk on it in the kitchen. For a while, Molly felt like the only
one paying any attention to the poor cop.
He was talking about how if they
noticed any kind of maintenance truck on the block—a plumber,
electrician, or a carpet cleaning service—it was best to check with
neighbors to make certain the service truck was legitimate. That
was when Kay Garvey raised her hand. “Excuse me. Do you know
anything about this murder last night at the
Arboretum?”
Gaping at her, Blazevich looked stumped
for a moment.
“This Ray Corson person who was
killed,” Kay explained. “He was the guidance counselor at our kids’
high school. So naturally, we’re concerned.”
Blazevich shoved his hands in his
pockets. “I understand, but—um, I can’t tell you any more than
what’s been on the news. It’s not my case.”
“Is it really true he just happened to
run out of gas by that park?” Lynette pressed. “Or is that
something the media is saying to protect his family or his
reputation or whatever?”
Blazevich shrugged. “I’m sorry. As I
said, it’s not my case.”
“You were talking about service trucks
on the block,” Molly spoke up. “Is that something burglars do when
they’re casing a house or a neighborhood?”
He smiled at her. “Yes, thank you, Ms.
Dennehy.”
“And is that something this Cul-de-sac
Killer might do when he’s figuring out where to strike
next?”
Blazevich’s smile faded and he nodded
somberly. “Yes, we believe these killings are well planned. He
knows ahead of time exactly where, when, and how he’s going to gain
entry into a house. And we think he has a pretty good idea of how
many people are in that house. . . .”
Mrs. Nguyen ceased knitting, and
Angela’s group suddenly stopped whispering to each other. Henry
quietly returned to the folding chair beside Molly.
“So—be cautious, be concerned,” the
policeman said. “Just the few extra seconds it takes to watch for
strangers driving or walking around your cul-de-sac may be enough
to prevent a crime.”
Molly was thinking of all the strangers
who house-sat for the Nguyens. It would be tough to keep track of
who was supposed to be there and who wasn’t. “Is there anything
else we should be on the lookout for?” she asked. “Any warning
signs specific to these—killings?”
Folding his arms, the cop hesitated
before answering. “This hasn’t been made known to the general
public, for reasons I’ll explain later. But if you notice your
no-outlet or dead-end sign at the start of the cul-de-sac is
missing, report it to the police immediately. With each murder, the
sign at the beginning of the street was gone. We believe the killer
takes the signs—possibly ahead of time—and keeps them as souvenirs
or trophies of his crimes. We’re doing our best to warn people who
live on cul-de-sacs like this one. Unfortunately, some teenagers
have heard about it, and we’ve had a rise in incidents with kids
stealing the dead-end signs as a prank. So—if you do see a sign is
missing, don’t panic, but definitely report it to the police right
away.”
The policeman glanced around the room.
“Now, even if you’re taking all the proper precautions,” he said,
“you still might be a bit nervous in the house after
dark—especially if your spouse is away, or if one of your children
has seen the news stories about these murders, and they’re scared.
One thing you don’t want to do is turn on all the lights in the
house. Since this has become part of the killer’s ritual, you don’t
want to alarm the neighbors. Instead, call a neighbor if you’re
scared or you suspect trouble. Count on each other for help. You
might even agree on a code word to use if you have reason to
believe an intruder is in the house, listening in. . .
.”
Molly found herself clinging to Henry’s
arm. Once he and Frank moved away, she wondered who she’d call if
she got scared.
After Detective Blazevich finished his
presentation, he passed around some Neighborhood Watch leaflets and
had everyone sign an official attendance form. It was all so they
could post a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH placard by
the NO OUTLET sign at the start of Willow
Tree Court—as if that would keep away a serial killer.
Henry had to hurry off to an
appointment. Molly retreated to the kitchen for the Tupperware
container in which she’d brought her Toll House cookies. Only a
couple had been eaten, and she didn’t want Squeaky throwing the
rest away, which she most certainly would do—out of spite. Jeff,
Chris, and Erin would be happy to eat them.
She was at the buffet table,
transferring the cookies from Lynette’s plate to the plastic
container, when Detective Blazevich came up to her side. Standing
this close to him now, Molly felt a certain electricity from him
that she hadn’t experienced with anyone since first meeting Jeff a
year ago. She could tell he was attracted to her—and it was
flattering, embarrassing, and titillating.
“I’d like to thank you, Ms. Dennehy,”
he whispered.
“Molly,” she said, with a cordial
smile.
“For a while there, Molly, you seemed
to be the only one listening to me. . . .”
She stole a glance at Angela in the
kitchen, watching their every move. From the family room, Kay and
Lynette were staring at them, too.
“Well, it seems you certainly have
their attention now,” Molly said under her breath.
“Something tells me you’re the new
neighbor on the block,” he said, helping himself to one of her Toll
House cookies. “You don’t seem to be part of the clique
here.”
Molly nodded. “You’re a very good
detective.”
“Damn, these are great,” he said,
munching on the cookie. “Better than the other batch. Why weren’t
they passing these around?”
“Because I baked
them,” she replied quietly. “Our hostess made the other batch. It’s
a long story, Detective.” Grabbing a napkin from the table, she
wrapped a few cookies in it and handed it to him. “Here, take some
home with you.”
“Well, thanks.” His fingers grazed hers
as he took the napkin.
Molly glanced at Angela in the kitchen
and Angela’s gal pals in the Hahns’ family room. They were still
staring.
Blazevich reached into his pocket and
pulled out a business card. “Listen—Molly, I appreciated your
thoughtful questions earlier.” He handed her the card. “If you have
any more questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call. My
cell phone number is on there, too.”
Molly took the card. She saw the others
were still watching and took a tiny step back from the
cop.
“Well, I should head out,” he said.
“Thanks again for the cookies.”
“Good-bye, Detective.”
Molly watched him return to the family
room, where he also gave Lynette his card. He thanked everyone for
their hospitality and said they should call if they had any
questions.
Blazevich wasn’t quite yet out
Lynette’s front door when Angela sidled up beside Molly at the
buffet table. She took one of Molly’s cookies, broke off a corner,
and nibbled at it. “He was very good looking,” she said. “And he
was flirting with you.”
“Well, if that’s true, I’m flattered,”
Molly replied, not looking at her. She kept busy putting the
cookies in the Tupperware. “But he was wasting his
time.”
“He gave you his business card,” Angela
went on. “The rest of us have to share one. Of course, you’re the
youngest and prettiest woman here. Why shouldn’t he pay more
attention to you? So—how’s Jeff doing?”
Molly nodded a few more times than
necessary. “He’s fine. Everyone’s fine, Angela. Erin’s looking
forward to seeing you at her ballet recital on
Saturday.”
“I was thinking it must be scary with
this killer on the loose, and Jeff going out of town all the time,”
Angela remarked. “I know all of his traveling drove me crazy after
a while—along with the fact that he couldn’t keep it inside his
zipper. . . .”
Molly stared at her and
blinked.
“I’m sorry, but if I were you, Molly,
I’d have flirted more with that detective. Jeff doesn’t have any
self-restraint. Why should you?” The way Angela spoke, she almost
came off as a concerned friend who had had too many glasses of
chardonnay—rather than the bitch she was.
Shaking her head, Molly snapped shut
the lid to the plastic container. “I don’t need your advice,
Angela,” she said evenly. “That problem doesn’t exist in my
marriage.”
Angela gave her a smug smile. “You keep
telling yourself that, honey.” Then she turned and joined her
friends in the Hahns’ family room.
Molly didn’t waste much time getting
out of there. After a few brief good-byes, she was out the door and
walking down the cul-de-sac with her Tupperware container and what
was left of her dignity. The sky was an ominous gray, and the wind
started to kick up. It would be raining soon, she could
tell.
She kept thinking that she shouldn’t
have let Angela have the last word. She should have said,
“The only problem Jeff and I have is you, Angela.
Get over him, and get out of our lives.”
But she couldn’t have said anything
like that to Angela’s face—not without feeling like a total ass
afterward. In truth, Angela had every reason to be bitter. It was
true. Jeff had been unfaithful on several occasions during the last
few loveless years of their marriage. Jeff had told Molly all about
it when they’d first started seeing each other.
At the time, Molly had been working
part-time under a real bitch who was the events coordinator at the
Capital Hilton in Washington, D.C. Jeff had been there for the New
Drugs in Development Conference with the American Pharmacology
Association. Molly was working the registration desk when Jeff
walked up, introduced himself, and asked for his badge. She was
immediately drawn to him. Not only was he drop-dead handsome, but
he had such a warm, friendly, confident manner. She’d grown so
tired of dodging passes from businessmen at these conferences, most
of them with their wedding rings in their pockets.
Her time in D.C. had been like an
exile. She’d gone there to forget—and feel somewhat anonymous. She
didn’t know a soul in Washington, D.C. But after a while, the
loneliness was too much. All she’d had were a few illustration
assignments, a job she tolerated, and a boss she loathed. On more
than one occasion, out of sheer desperation, she’d succumb to the
charms of some lonely businessman. She didn’t ask too many
questions or expect anything more than one or two nights of
company.
But Jeff was different. The conference
went on for three days, and on day two, he asked if she had time
the following afternoon to go with him to the National Gallery. How
could she refuse? On top of everything else, he appreciated
art.
At the gallery, right in front of a
Jackson Pollock painting, Jeff told her that he and his wife had
separated only six weeks before. Molly didn’t want to date someone
who was on the rebound. Reluctantly, she told him so, and Jeff
seemed to understand. Then he showed her pictures of his kids on
his cell phone, and he seemed so genuine, so proud of them. She
couldn’t help falling for him, despite her resolve.
Jeff said he’d be back in D.C. for
another pharmaceutical conference in three weeks. Could he take her
out to dinner while he was in town again?
She said yes. Six weeks later, she flew
into Seattle to meet Chris and Erin.
Two months after that, they were
married. If it seemed rushed, that was probably her fault as much
as Jeff’s. She was in love with him and eager to start a new life.
She’d been so miserable in Washington, D.C., and the dark, gloomy
paintings she’d produced during this period reflected
that.
Then into her life stepped this
handsome, sweet guy with two kids who was going to change
everything around for her.
Yes, he’d had affairs and one-night
stands while married to Angela. But Molly had to give him a second
chance. She knew what it was like, not being let off the hook.
Before her exile to D.C., she’d spent her last weeks in Chicago
seeking forgiveness—and not finding it.
She still remembered standing at that
woman’s front stoop on West Gunnison Street. She’d come there to
tell her how sorry she was. “I don’t mean to bother you,” she’d
told the middle-aged woman. “My name is—”
“I know who you are,” the woman had
hissed, glaring at her. She’d had tears in her eyes and started
trembling. She suddenly spit in Molly’s face. “Don’t come crawling
around here, hoping I’ll accept any apologies from you, because I
won’t! It’s not going to change a damn thing. Now, get the hell out
of here—or I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
Sometimes, Molly could still feel the
woman’s spittle running down her cheek and hear her harsh words.
She’d moved to D.C. to forget, but it hadn’t worked. She’d thought
her chances might be better in Seattle.
She and Jeff were both starting over.
She told him about Chicago. And Jeff kept her secret. There was no
reason his kids needed to know about it, not for a while at
least.
As she headed home, the wind seemed to
whip right through her. Molly felt a few drops of rain. She wished
she’d worn a coat for the half-block jaunt down to Lynette Hahn’s
house.
She couldn’t get that conversation with
Angela out of her head. Molly told herself the Jeff she knew was
different from the Jeff who had been married to Angela
Shielding her head with the Tupperware
container, she trotted up the walkway, unlocked the front door, and
stepped inside the warm foyer. She set the container on the hallway
table and headed up to the master bedroom. In Jeff’s closet, Molly
started checking the pockets of his suits and his khakis. She was
looking for matchbooks or cocktail napkins with phone numbers
scribbled on them. But all she found were three wrapped Halls cough
drops, a stick of Juicy Fruit, several wads of Kleenex, and about
$1.30 in change.
She still felt uncertain and retreated
downstairs—to Jeff’s study off the front hallway. The small room
had a built-in, U-shaped mahogany desk—along with matching
cabinets. A large-screen computer sat in the middle of the desk—in
front of a picture window. Photos of her and the kids decorated the
walls and desktop.
Molly opened the desk drawers and
glanced at old bills and bank statements. She opened his
appointment book and browsed through it. Nothing even remotely
suspicious.
With a sigh, she plopped down in his
chair and switched on the computer. She glanced at his e-mails—the
ones he sent and received. Almost all of them were
business-related, with a few correspondences to friends she knew.
Four were from Angela, all within the last few days. They were curt
inquiries about some book or CD that she’d accidentally left
behind. Jeff was just as curt with his responses:
I’ll make sure Chris brings the
Moody Blues CD to you next time he visits.—J.
Molly had no idea Angela was still
bugging him about little things like that. His poor ex-wife just
couldn’t let go— and that was why she’d tried to put these doubts
about Jeff’s fidelity in her head. Molly felt stupid, listening to
her.
She shut off the computer.
Carrying the Tupperware full of cookies
into the kitchen, she set it on the counter, and then pulled
Detective Blazevich’s card from her jeans pocket. She fixed it to
the front of the refrigerator with a magnet.
She had to work on her painting. But
before heading upstairs to her studio on the third floor, Molly
wandered back into Jeff’s study. She gazed out the window—toward
the start of the cul-de-sac. She could see the NO
OUTLET sign was still there.
She just needed to make
sure.
Incoming Call
206-555-0416
Angela Dwyer
206-555-0416
Angela Dwyer
Chris frowned at the little screen on
his cell phone. He still wasn’t used to his mother going by her
maiden name.
The phone was on vibrate, but it had
still startled him. Chris had been slouched over a long desk in the
school library, his arms folded on the tabletop, resting his head
on them. He was a little out of it, but hadn’t really fallen
asleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Corson.
During swimming season, he was excused
from gym, his last class of the day. So he often came here to kill
time, get a head start on his homework, or nap before swim
practice. He liked the arched windows and the quiet. Plus he had a
little crush on the head librarian, Merrill Chertok. The pretty
brunette was his swim coach’s wife. She got him hooked on books
about time travel. When things hadn’t been so great at home, he’d
sometimes stay at the library until it closed at five. Unlike the
assistant librarian, who had a burr up her butt, Ms. Chertok let
him nap there. He’d wake up and see her behind the desk, and
somehow he’d feel all right for a while.
At the moment, Ms. Chertok was at her
desk, shaking her head at him. She pointed to the
door.
Chris got her drift: no talking on cell
phones in the library. Nodding, he quickly got to his feet and
stepped out to the empty hallway with his cell. He clicked it on.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, leaning against the wall. “What’s going
on?”
“I’ve been thinking about you all
day—ever since I heard about Mr. Corson,” she said. “How are you
doing, sweetie?”
Chris rubbed his eyes. “I’m okay.” He
really didn’t want to talk to her about Mr. Corson’s death. His mom
had played as pivotal a role as anyone in banishing Mr. Corson from
the school.
“Listen,” she said, “if you’re confused
or feeling bad, I want you to know that I’m here for you, Chris.
You can talk to me. Or you can talk to your father. He’s a smart
man, a very compassionate man.”
He couldn’t believe she was actually
praising his father to him. It was touching that in order to make
sure he had someone to talk to, his mom put aside her personal
grievances with his dad.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said into the phone.
“Dad and I talked this morning, and I’m okay.” He wanted to change
the subject. “How are you? What’s going on?”
“Well, I was in the neighborhood
today,” she said. “Lynette Hahn had one of those Neighborhood Watch
meetings at her place, and this attractive, young policeman told us
all about the Cul-de-sac Killer. Very scary stuff! Oh, and
afterwards, he flirted shamelessly with Molly. Of course, she’s so
pretty. Still, I didn’t see her do anything to discourage him.
Sometimes, I really wonder about her. You get along with her,
honey. Has she said anything to you about her family or her past? I
mean, I’m absolutely clueless as to who she is or what she did
before she met your father. And I’m supposed to entrust you and
Erin in her care? It’s crazy.”
Chris wondered why—after all these
months—his mother was suddenly dying to find out more about Molly.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Mom,” he said. “She doesn’t
talk much about her background or her family. . . .”
He remembered helping Molly move her
stuff up to the third floor after she’d converted it into an art
studio. A photo of a good-looking guy in his twenties had fluttered
out of an open shoebox full of snapshots and postcards. Chris has
asked who it was, and Molly had stared at it for a moment. Her eyes
had filled with tears. “That’s my brother, Charlie,” she’d said at
last. “He’s dead.”
“How’d he die?” Chris had
asked.
“He—ah, he killed himself,” she’d
admitted, her voice a little strained.
Not wanting to upset her any more,
Chris had decided to stop asking questions about her dead
brother.
He never asked Molly about her mother,
either. But apparently, she was a widow who lived in St.
Petersburg, Florida. Every once in a while, Chris could hear Molly
talking on the phone to her—usually behind the closed door of the
master bedroom or in her art studio on the third floor. The
conversations didn’t last long, and Molly never sounded too happy.
“Yes, Mother, I’ll get a check to you this week,” she’d say in a
dull monotone.
Chris didn’t want to tell his mother
any of this. It seemed wrong somehow. Besides, he needed to get off
the phone and go to swim practice.
“Listen, Mom, I gotta wrap it up here,
okay?” he said into the phone.
“Well, I’ll see you weekend after
next—if not sooner,” she said. “I love you. And call me if you
start to feel sad or blue. Promise?”
“I promise,” he said. “Bye, Mom.” Chris
clicked off the cell phone.
He ducked back into the library to grab
his jacket and books. After a quick wave to Ms. Chertok, he headed
out again.
The pool was in a different wing on the
other side of the school. Chris kept his head down and eyes to the
floor all the way there. It had become his posture of the day. He
just didn’t want to talk to anybody.
As he stepped inside the locker room,
he was hit with a familiar combo-waft of chlorine-chemical smell
and B.O. Most of his teammates had already gone to the pool area,
but a few still lingered at their lockers. He could hear them in
the next row, belt buckles clinking against the tiled floor, locker
doors banging.
“Hey, did you hear this one?” one of
the guys was saying. It sounded like Dean Fischer, who was kind of
a wiseass jerk. “What was Ray Corson’s favorite song?”
There was a silence. While Chris worked
the combination of his locker, he imagined the other guy shaking
his head.
“‘Don’t Let Your Son Go Down on Me’!”
Fischer said, cackling. “Get it? That old song by Elton John . .
.”
Chris started to unbutton his shirt.
He’d first heard that joke when Mr. Corson was forced to leave the
school.
“Don’t you get it, moron?” Fischer was
saying. A locker door slammed. “Corson and Ian Scholl, remember
back in December? And at the same time, Corson was trying to get
into Chris Dennehy’s pants, too. Dennehy’s the one who walked in on
them. . . .”
In his blue Speedo, George Camper, the
captain of the team and a nice guy, strode past Chris. George shot
him a concerned look before he disappeared past the row of lockers.
“Hey, Fischer,” George said. “Do me a favor and shut the hell
up.”
“‘Don’t Let Your Son Go Down on Me’?
Get it?” Fischer was saying to his buddy. “Are you brain-dead or
something? Don’t you remember? Chris Dennehy and Ian
Scholl—”
“Shut up already!” Chris heard George
growl. Then there was whispering.
Chris buttoned his shirt back up. He
quickly collected his jacket and backpack of books. He just
couldn’t stick around there. He closed his locker, spun the
combination dial, and then ducked out of the locker
room.
It was raining out, so Chris stood
under the bus shelter while waiting for the number 331. Only a few
other students were at the stop. They looked like freshmen. Chris
didn’t have to wait long before the bus showed up. He took a seat
near the back. Staring out the rain-beaded window, he thought about
Ian Scholl.
Ian was thin and pale with jet-black
hair. There was something weird about his looks—he seemed
pretty instead of handsome. Courtney claimed
he must have sculpted his eyebrows to get them to look the way they
did. Yet he didn’t have a metrosexual thing going on. He always
dressed very neat and conservatively in what Courtney called Mormon
clothes. Ian was a mess of contradictions. He was obviously gay,
and just as obviously uncomfortable with it. His effeminate
manner—paired with a rabid homophobia—alienated everyone and made
him a prime target for teasing.
Chris didn’t talk to him much. They
were in the same English lit class, but that was about it. Mostly,
he just saw Ian in the hallways, carrying his books like a
girl—until some guy inevitably knocked those books out of his grasp
or tripped him. On one of those occasions, Chris had felt bad for
Ian, and he’d picked up one of Ian’s books for him. “Are you okay?”
he’d asked.
Ian had snatched the book out of his
hand. “I don’t need any help from some dumb jock,” he’d
hissed.
Chris had let out a surprised laugh.
“Well, screw you, then.” He’d turned and walked away.
So later, when Mr. Corson had asked him
to be nice to Ian, Chris resisted. They’d been jogging around the
track together. Chris told him about the episode with the
schoolbooks in the hallway. “The guy’s a jerk,” Chris said, between
gasps for air. “I already tried to be friendly with him, and he got
all pissy on me. And you want me to be his pal? No
thanks!”
Mr. Corson slowed to a stop, and then
caught his breath. His Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Concert Tour T-shirt was soaked and clinging to him. Jogging in
place at his side, Chris had only a few beads of sweat on his
forehead.
“You weren’t offering Ian friendship,”
Mr. Corson said. “You were offering him your pity. He was mad and
humiliated. So he snapped at you. Give him a second chance. I’m not
asking you to be best friends with him. Just be nice, and maybe
persuade some of your pals to stop tormenting him.”
Chris suddenly stopped running in
place. “I’ve never tormented him,” he pointed out. “And the guys
who pick on him aren’t my friends, so I doubt they’ll listen to me
when I tell them to lay off. I don’t have that much clout around
here.” He shook his head. “Really, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you
out, Mr. C.”
“Fine, I understand,” Mr. Corson
muttered.
“We’ve still got two more laps,” Chris
said. He started running in place once more. “You aren’t pooping
out on me, are you?”
Mr. Corson nodded. “Yeah, I am,” he
sighed. “You go ahead and finish up without me, Chris. I’m beat.”
He turned and lumbered toward the school’s athletic
wing.
Chris remembered watching him walk
away. He’d almost called to him. But instead, he’d just let him
go.
Chris heard the bus driver announce his
stop. He let out a sigh and started to reach for the signal cord
above his head. But then he hesitated. He didn’t want to go home
just yet. He couldn’t pretend for Molly that everything was okay.
He just didn’t have it in him right now. Slowly, his hand went down
and he watched the bus speed past his stop.
He realized there was someplace else he
had to go.
The bus made three more stops, and
Chris was the only passenger left. He wasn’t too familiar with this
part of the route, but he knew they must be getting close to his
destination. He’d only been there once before.
Getting to his feet, he made his way
toward the front of the bus. The driver was a cinnamon-skinned,
thirtysomething woman with short-cropped, shiny, dark auburn hair.
Chris caught her looking at him in the mirror.
“Excuse me,” he said, grabbing an
overhead strap to keep his balance. “Does this bus go to the—the
Evergreen Wasabi Cemetery?”
“Ha!” She grinned up at him in the
mirror. “You mean, Evergreen Washelli,
honey! Wasabi is Japanese horseradish. Ha!” She gazed at his
reflection; and obviously she saw he wasn’t smiling. She shifted in
her seat a bit, cleared her throat, and nodded. “Evergreen Washelli
Memorial Park is coming up in two more stops. Why don’t you sit
down, honey? I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Chris plopped down on the handicapped
seat behind her. He figured the bus driver must have thought he was
related to someone buried in the cemetery, and maybe that was why
she got serious all of the sudden. “Thanks a lot,” he
said.
Chris thanked her again a few minutes
later as the doors whooshed open and he stepped off the bus. He was
about a half block from the open gates of the Memorial Park
entrance. By the time Chris started down the private drive of the
park, his hair was wet and matted down with rain. His jacket had
become soaked. The cold dampness seeped through to his shoulders,
and he shuddered. He passed the administration building, which
resembled a modern-looking chapel. He’d gone in there on his last
visit for help finding the grave.
But he was pretty sure he still
remembered where the marker was. Taking a curve in the road, he
started up a gentle slope and kept a lookout for a tall statue of
St. Joseph. That had been how he’d found his way when he’d been
here back in January. The trees were bare then, and the grass had
some brown patches. But everything was in bloom now, and the lawn
was a lush, misty green—punctuated by squares of gray, rose, and
white marble. There were only a few other people in the park, and
they’d had the good sense to bring umbrellas. No one was close
enough to see him muttering to himself: “I’m sure this is the way.
I know St. Joseph is around here someplace. . . .”
He finally spotted the statue behind a
huge evergreen. Just beyond that was a section of the cemetery with
no upright markers. The grave he wanted to find was near one of the
two Japanese maples on the far side of the section.
As Chris trudged on the grass, he felt
water seeping into his Nikes, soaking his socks. The rain seemed to
be getting worse. His hands were wet and cold. He rarely strapped
on his backpack, but he resorted to that now—so he could shove both
hands in his jacket pockets. Shivering, he imagined catching
pneumonia, maybe even dying.
Well, he deserved to die.
Perhaps they would bury him here among
these flat markers, where people could walk over the gravestones,
as well as the graves—and not give a damn. He realized that without
any standing tombstones, it might be tough to find the right
grave—a lot tougher than he thought.
Chris reached the Japanese maples—with
rain dripping from their red spidery leaves. He started looking for
the marker. Near the end of the row, he
reminded himself. He couldn’t remember the color. He walked up and
down the end row of markers with his head down, looking at the
ground. It was his posture of the day, because he didn’t want to
talk with anyone.
The only people he wanted to talk to
were dead.
And they hadn’t buried Mr. Corson
yet.
After a few minutes, the names started
to blend together, and Chris retraced his steps. “You’re here
someplace,” he whispered, running a hand through his wet hair. “I
know you’re here. . . .”
Then at last, he saw it—a gray marker,
a bit newer than the others. Chris stopped in his tracks and stared
down at it. His throat started to tighten.
IAN HAMPTON
SCHOLL
1994–2010
1994–2010
Beloved Son–Rest
with the Angels
As he gazed down at the marker, warm
tears mingled with the cold rain on his face. “I’m sorry,” Chris
said. He shook his head over and over. “God, I’m so sorry. . .
.”