Dogwood (2 page)

My counselor says everybody has a story. Well, here’s mine.

I killed my sisters at 7:43 a.m. on a July morning in 1980. I remember it was July because baseball season wasn’t even half over, but my father had already given up on the Reds. I remember it was 7:43 because my watch got stuck when I jumped the guardrail. The Focal my dad had bought for me at Kmart just stuck. Little hand between the seven and eight, big hand between the eight and the nine. Closer to the nine.

That was the first thing I told the man who was supposed to help me. He wanted to know why I had killed them. I couldn’t answer. I figured he knew anyway. He seemed to know a lot of things even though he just asked questions.

Everyone has a story, he said.

Yeah.

Why don’t you tell me the rest?

I don’t remember much.

He put a hand to his beard. Why do all counselors have beards? Seems like all the ones in the movies have them. Counselors must take a class in facial hair. You’d think they’d shave or at least trim a bit and wouldn’t try to hide anything.

You didn’t actually kill them, did you?

I did.

That’s not the truth.

Yeah, it is.

Then take me back. Tell me what happened that morning.

Why?

I want to hear how you remember it. I want to experience it with you.

I couldn’t. Though I had relived the sights and sounds and smells of that day a thousand times. When I was asleep or maybe awake. I don’t know. My little sister with her neck twisted—her arms to her side but her neck turned around, like she was trying to be funny. Karla. She had just turned eight a couple of weeks earlier. June 20 is her birthday. It was easy to remember because that’s also the birthday of West Virginia. Abraham Lincoln was around when that happened. At least, that’s what our teacher told us. Mr. Kilgore told us much more than that, but I don’t remember a whole lot except that it was during the Civil War and we didn’t want to be a slave state like Virginia. It’s hard to remember the little things, especially on a test.

They gave Karla a cowgirl outfit for her birthday, and she would’ve worn it every day if Mama had let her. She squealed when she opened it and pulled off her clothes right there in the kitchen to put it on. Mama said, Oh, Karla, but she went right ahead and tried it on. The morning I killed them, Karla and Tanny wore starched white T-shirts that smelled like a million cut flowers. Their hair in pigtails. Hand in hand, walking toward a future they’d never see because of me.

When I think real hard or talk about that morning, I can smell the radiator fluid. It was all over the place. And the engine hissed. I never knew a person could do that much damage to a car. A deer, yeah, but a person? Especially a couple of kids.

Then the car pulled back and my other sister was under there,
the air coming out of her mouth, puff, puff. And Tanny just stared at me with eyes glazed over like she was sick or something.

Karla and Tanny dead by the road and it was my fault.

The counselor took a long time just looking at me with his lips together. Then he said, Tell their story.

I thought he meant my sisters, so I started telling him what it was like to have sisters and how much I wanted a brother who could play cars or go hunting or ride bikes. The girls could ride bikes—heck, Karla was the first to go off some of the jumps I made. Probably more fearless than a lot of brothers, but I still wanted one. And that made me feel even more guilty for what I’d done.

Then I told him about Mom letting me feed Tanny a bottle when she was a baby. And one time I didn’t burp her and she blew the whole bottle on my new baseball glove. I wanted to spank her, but everybody just laughed. Ha-ha. I never did get the formula smell out of the glove. Ruined the leather. Anytime I’d miss a ground ball, I’d blame her.

But my counselor didn’t mean that. He didn’t mean for me to tell the stories of my sisters.

I told him about how I took them the way we weren’t supposed to go—up the dirt road that cut through to Route 60. Mama told us never to walk that way when we were going to Mamaw’s. Said it was too dangerous. If she only knew some of the places we’d been, she wouldn’t have been so scared, but I guess she was right. When you look back it’s a lot easier to tell when people are right.

Tanny and Karla reminded me what Mama had said and tried to get me to go the other way down by the creek, but I grabbed their hands and pulled them through the bushes and out to the gravel and the dust and made them come. I just wanted to walk by her house. The girl with the red hair. She had a horse, and the guys at school said sometimes she’d ride it in the morning before her dad left. I thought he must be a good dad to let her do that
before he went off to work, wherever that was. The nickel plant. Union Carbide. I never knew what he did.

The red-haired girl was outside that morning—I couldn’t believe it—but she wasn’t having fun. She was crying, yanking on her father’s arm as he put the horse in a trailer. I thought maybe they were taking it to the vet, but she kept screaming, No! You can’t!

And that’s when I remembered
Charlotte’s Web
. Mrs. Munroe had read it to our class in the fourth grade, and lots of people cried when Charlotte died—I hope I’m not spoiling it for you. I couldn’t forget the first few lines—Papa going to the hog house with an ax.

I wanted to help the red-haired girl. I wanted to run in there and save the horse for her so she’d like me and we’d be friends and one day get married. I figured he was taking that horse to the dog food factory or maybe the glue factory. That’s what my friends said happened to old horses. I’d like to think that what took place next in my story prevented him from killing that old horse, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t.

Her daddy looked at me. I wanted to be the hero, but I chickened out and took Karla and Tanny back toward the road, back the way we weren’t supposed to go, looking for the trail that led to the street where Mamaw lived.

The counselor looked at me as if he knew what I was thinking, as if he could see right inside me, though I know that’s not possible. Looks that you see in the movies, like a person can tell what’s going on in there. Sure felt like it to me.

I’m going to give you an assignment, he said.

Assignment?

Someone of your intelligence should be able to handle this. He turned and grabbed a pad of yellow paper, the kind you tear off and that has green lines on it. He ripped off the top pages that had writing on it and plopped the whole thing on my lap. Start from the beginning, he said. Don’t leave anything out.

I can’t write.

Just tell it as it comes. As you find out. Don’t worry about the spelling. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

Do I get a grade or something?

Do you want one?

No.

He leaned forward. What do you really want, Danny? In all the world, what do you really want?

I wanted to scream. I wanted to be forgiven for the awful thing I’d done. I didn’t want to feel guilty. It was my fault. If it would bring them back, I’d gladly take their place. I wanted us to be a family again instead of walking corpses. Just going through life like zombies on that
Night of the Living Dead
movie. I haven’t seen it, but one of my friends told me about it.

Everyone has a story, he said again.

What good will it do for me to write something down?

He put his hands together, index fingers pointing up like a steeple, and touched his lips. Red lips in the middle of that beard. Nothing good ever hides, he said.

Nothing bad does either, I said. It eventually pokes its head up at some point and bites your rear end.

He smiled. True. But it’s best to get it into the open quickly where we can all see it. Begin to understand. Live with it. Work with it.

I wished I could smile like he did, a light coming through his eyes as if you could see as far back as you wanted all the way to the end of something. But behind the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, I noticed a little sadness. I wondered what his story was. What had he seen and done? Why was he some two-bit counselor in this place talking to a kid who’d killed his sisters?

You were only eleven, you know, he said.

I should have known better. If I’d obeyed, this whole thing wouldn’t have happened and we’d be celebrating Tanny’s birthday.

He nodded. You made a mistake. You didn’t mean to—

I killed them.

He sat for a long time looking at me. I hate it when grown-ups stare at kids. The room felt like it needed music. Something playing in the background. Maybe if he opened a window a bird would chirp or something and break the silence.

He tapped a pencil. Will you write it?

What choice do I have?

He reached for the pad on my lap.

I pulled it away and held on. I can’t promise I’ll get it right.

Is that what you think I want? I don’t want it right. I want it to be good. And true.

I’m saying it won’t be any good. How long do you think it will take?

He handed me another pad. Write about them until you’re ready to talk.

Wait. You mean my sisters or—?

Everyone has a story, he interrupted. Tell theirs.

I looked at the pads, the green running across the pages in perfect lines, as if they could go on to infinity. Parallel lines do that. That’s what Mrs. Arnold said when we were studying math. They just go on and on and on and never touch. Hard to imagine something going so far as to never touch. Kind of sad, too, in a way. I squared the edges and tucked the pads under an arm. His words echoed in my head, through the halls.

Good things can come from pain, he said. Not all of it is good, of course, but some of it. And the places it leads are good places, not bad. Never be afraid of the places pain will take you.

Like a hospital?

He smiled.

So I left and found out he was right. Everyone does have a story
.

Clarkston Federal Correctional Institution

Clarkston, West Virginia

I can’t stop my hands from shaking. Just like at the trial. Uncontrollable. It doesn’t even help if I shove them in my pockets.

With the fluorescent lights over me so strong, I can see a ghost of my reflection. I’ve avoided mirrors for twelve years. Only two months to go, but I don’t think I’ll ever look in a mirror again and not remember what’s happened. It’s enough to turn a strong man’s stomach.

Men elected president enter the White House with dark hair, full of vigor, and most leave a few years later looking twenty years older. I would have taken the White House over Clarkston. I entered this white house weighing 195. If I can stay above 150, I’ll be happy.

The solace comes when I close my eyes and think of home. What the neighbors are doing. Fishing with Uncle Luther. Or with my dad. I’ll never do that again. The excitement of hunting season. There are people up the hollow who were in grade school when I left. They’re out of college now or in prison. Maybe out of college
and
in prison.

The chair squeaks as I lean forward and rest my elbows on the
Formica countertop. The letter came a week ago. The explanation was a bit confusing, but it said
she
would visit. And now I sit with my stomach in knots, unable to let the thought enter my mind that it might really be
her
.

My first two months here were spent crafting letters, pouring out my heart, detailing my feelings. Half of them I threw away, convinced I’d said too much or too little. The other half I sent.

Every letter went unanswered.

I heard rumors, of course. Wild ones that she had moved away or was pregnant and had a shotgun wedding. Carson, my brother, called her unspeakable names. But every waking moment of the last dozen years, I’ve thought of her.

Down the row, a voice echoes off the scratched Plexiglas. Tears. Hands reaching. An inmate falsely accused. A mother weeping. It seems so cliché now.

Yet I can’t deny a flicker of hope. After a year I stopped sending letters, but I never stopped writing. Or loving. There are things I have to do once I get out. Hard things. People I have to face. But if I can just see her once more . . .

Every night for twelve years, I’ve turned off the light and interlaced my fingers behind my head, drifting off to a dream of a house on a hill overlooking a meadow and a sea of West Virginia mountains and trees rolling like an ocean. I’m returning from work swinging a lunch box. I stop and pick up a child who runs to me. Then she appears on the porch, in sandals, relaxed, holding a frosty glass of tea, smiling at both of us. I long for that dream to become reality, but I know it’s only a dream.

Someone moves behind me and I jerk around, a reflex developed for survival.

“Take it easy,” the guard says, his hands out. “Just got the word that they’re here.”

I nod. “Thanks.”