Mr. Dees

I STOOD IN my kitchen with Tom Evers, and I told him as much as I could stand to say. Yes, it was true that I’d told Raymond R. about the way Katie had struck my fancy. Such a darling little girl. Who couldn’t help but love her?

“But Tom,” I said, “you know me. Do you really think I’m the sort of man Clare Wright claims I am?”

“Right now I’m just asking questions,” Tom said. “I’m just trying to find out what’s gone on.” He was facing me, but I could tell his eyes were glancing around my kitchen, taking everything in, and for an instant, I wondered if I’d forgotten anything. That rose petal, that fluff of hair. Then I remembered the snapshot, the one of Katie sitting on that stone bench. I’d looked for it earlier and hadn’t been able to find it. I had no idea where it had gone. “Mister Dees,” he said, “I need to know where you were last night.”

“I told the officer who came here. Tom, I was home last night. I was right here preparing lessons.”

“Is there anyone who can vouch for that? Anyone see you out in the yard maybe? Anyone call you on the telephone or see you in the house?”

It pained me to have to answer that question. “Tom,” I said, “I don’t have many friends. I pretty much keep to myself.” He studied me for a good while. “Is there call for me to prove something?” I finally asked him.

“I can’t say that there is. No, I can’t say that. I’m just trying to eliminate whatever I can. You understand? Some people say you were a friend to this Raymond Wright.”

“He’s done some repair work at my house. Not long ago, he gave me a ride home from the Moonlight Madness Carnival. Neighborly things like that. I wouldn’t say exactly that we’re friends.”

“I’m just trying to whittle things down, trying to learn what happened to Katie Mackey.”

“I understand that, Tom. Like I said, Katie is a splendid little girl.”

“If you know of anything that might help me, I trust you’ll let me know.”

“Believe me, Tom. If I had something to tell you, I would.”

I didn’t tell him about the nights I hid myself away and watched the Mackeys in their backyard. I didn’t tell him about taking the petal from Patsy’s rose or the fluff of hair from Katie’s brush—thank goodness Clare hadn’t said anything to Tom about that—and I didn’t tell him about the time that summer when I went into Katie’s room.

It was only that one time. Trust me; this is true. It was a Sunday morning, and I knew the Mackeys would be at church. It was easy to get into the house. Most folks in our small town only used their locks when they went away on vacation. I opened the back door and stepped inside.

It was quiet there: the refrigerator humming, the grandfather clock in the foyer ticking—so quiet that I could hear the chains and gears in the clock as the weights rose and fell.

I stood at the foot of the stairs. I had waited in this foyer more than once that summer, eager for Katie to come down for her lesson, but this morning I was free to go wherever I chose. I could imagine that this was my home and soon it would be filled with the sounds of my family: Patsy’s sharp, bright laugh; Gilley’s rock-and-roll music playing on his stereo; and Katie—oh, my dear, dear Katie—she would come hopping down the stairs, singing some silly rhyme:

Eenie, Meenie, Disaleenie

Ooh, aah, Gotchaleenie

Hotchy Totchy

Liberace

I love you!

I laid my hand on the stairway railing, put one foot on the carpeted runner, and then it was easy—one foot after the other, climbing the stairs to Katie’s bedroom.

The house smelled of roses—vases and vases of roses—but in Katie’s room the scents were more varied, and to me, who had never lived with a child, more exotic. There was a necklace of candy beads and a chain woven from Fruit Stripe gum wrappers, bottles of Avon Sweet Honesty cologne and Maybelline Rose Lustre nail polish, modeling clay and rub-on tattoos, crayons and Magic Markers, construction paper and paste, stuffed bears and snakes and dogs.

I memorized each scent. I took my time. I told myself I would never do this again, never be in this room. That certainty made me bold, and I opened her dresser drawers. One held neat stacks of shorts and tank tops and T-shirts; in another were balls of socks and tights. A third drawer was for her camisoles and underpants, and I know you expect that I lingered there—pervert that you’ve surely decided I am—that I pressed my face into cotton and rayon, perhaps even wadded up a pair of panties and stuffed them into my pocket. I know you expect the worst of me. I’d be ashamed to have the thoughts that you do now.

The truth is this: I was a man who didn’t know what to do with his passion. I was a teacher of mathematics, and numbers taught me that there was always an answer. Noodle around long enough, and I could solve any problem. But this love I felt for Katie, this child I wished were my own—that was a knot I couldn’t untangle. I was trapped in it, helpless. I trembled with the thought of how far I had gone. There I was in her room, overwhelmed. Me, a decent man. You have to believe me. I have nothing to offer as proof except the rest of my story.

I closed her dresser drawer, the wooden runners squealing just a bit, and that’s when I saw the picture wedged into the corner of the mirror: Katie sitting on a stone bench in her backyard, smiling at the camera, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. It seemed that she was smiling at me, and I couldn’t help myself. I plucked the picture from the mirror and slipped it into my pocket before stepping out into the hall.

A door opened before I could make it to the stairs, and Gilley came out of his room. He was in his boxer shorts and bare-chested, his hair tousled from sleep. I remembered how kind he had been to me when I had asked him whether I could take home the jackets from Penney’s and then return the ones I didn’t want. How he had trusted me.

“Mister Dees?” he said, his voice full of surprise and wonder, and I knew immediately that I could tell him any lie, and he would believe me.

But you, I won’t lie to. Don’t worry. You, I’ll tell the truth. Every bit of it. No matter if you want it or not.