Echo Lake: A Novel (14 page)

He passed a trailer, wrecked, probably empty. He shone his headlamp on it briefly, surprised by the corner of turquoise siding that had flashed in his lamp’s proximity. The yard around the trailer was overgrown, the driveway covered with low brush. Two windows had been broken and were covered with cardboard from the inside. He wasn’t sure how long the trailer has been there; he hadn’t been out this way in years.

He kept walking. He’d be close to the lake soon: already, he could feel the damp, the mosquitoes thick in the air. Soon, the road would dead end and a path would lead out to a small beach, the shore rocky, the water first shallow then deepening at a sudden drop. It wasn’t a safe place to swim, but he had swum there since childhood, so he knew where the drop was. The light on the water highlighted the darkness around it. It was still, only slightly lapping at the shore. Christopher regretted coming out all this way once he had finally reached the shore. It had seemed like the right place to go, fitting somehow for his mood, but now that he was there, he was bled by bugs and jumpy at the rustling sounds in the leaves. The lake put off a fog, too, a damp air that hung above it. It smelled like salt and reflected back his headlamp, blinding him.

•

The woman in the trailer had not slept for days. When she woke, she lay collapsed in the bathroom, the one room that still had glass instead of cardboard in the window. The man had left her hours ago and taken everything but the broken, blackened lightbulbs and foil and one lighter with him. The light from the bathroom window shone into her face from the road. That’s what woke her up. She’d been dreaming that she was playing with her daughter at the old trailer, the place where she had lived when she was happy and had a good job at the feed store, before she met him, before she got thin and forgetful and found herself walking with a trail of blood around the store, hardly noticing that a piece of broken glass had gashed her bloodless palm and was told to go home, go home until she was feeling better. She did not feel better, and no amount of time at home had helped. Alexis lived with her grandma and father now: they’d taken her away one day a few weeks or months ago. When they left, she’d torn at her hair until somebody made her stop and she woke with bloody spots on her pillow. The last time she’d tried to visit the child had cried and Glenn, that bastard, had said
just look at you—have you looked at yourself? You hardly look alive. You aren’t fit to raise her.

When the woman woke the light shone on her face and she was afraid. She wasn’t supposed to be here: she was supposed to be home. If they found her here she’d have to go back to jail. Her mouth and throat were dry. She climbed up the sink, supporting herself on the cracked plastic basin, and turned on the faucets. Nothing came out. The light shone again in the window. She wanted to lie back down on the floor and go back to sleep, but she was afraid, and her mouth was dry. She bit her tongue hard to make blood or salt come up in her mouth and moisten it. She had to find water.

•

Christopher tried to skip rocks on the surface of the lake, something his father had taught him as a child. The rocks, though the right size, the right flatness, plopped straight down into the water.

Who? It was a shout, a one-word question. Christopher turned, his headlamp still on. It was a woman. She held up her emaciated arms and hands against her face.

Turn it off! She shouted. She was covered in cuts, most scabbed over. She wore cut-off shorts that ended in hanging threads mid-thigh and a bathing suit top, both filthy. Her hair was in a ponytail, matted and ragged around her head. It was impossible to tell how old she was: between 25 and 40. She was so thin, so dirty.

Sorry, he said, sorry about the light. I forgot I had it on. Christopher took the light from his head and placed it on the ground, where it send out a spreading triangle of light on the lake and into the bushes. A small splash broke the surface of the water. A fish or a frog jumping from the shore into the water, thinking it safer there than here on the beach with these two humans and their shrill light. Christopher turned back to the shore, where the woman now kneeled down at the edge of the water, drinking the lake from her cupped hands.

You think you should drink that? The woman didn’t look up.

Thirsty, she said. No water up at the trailer. She continued to drink. Her bony knees ground into the sand, her bare feet, hard and cracked, depressed him. It bothered him that he couldn’t tell how old she was. What if she was his age? What’ if he’d gone to high school with her and he just couldn’t remember?

Do you need help?

The woman had finished drinking and now sat at the edge of the water, her head hanging, her hands flat on the shore. She looked up.

I don’t need no help. I’m good now. She breathed heavily.

Are you sure? Christopher asked. I can help you—

Don’t tell no-one where I am, she said. No-one needs to know.

Are you going back to that trailer back there? Do you need help back? Christopher was alarmed by her gravelly voice, by the stale smell of her.

Sometimes, people don’t know they need help until you extend your hand, that’s what the pastor had said last time he made it to church, when his grandmother insisted he come along for a special sermon, given by one of the leaders of the Southern Baptist Convention of Oklahoma, who was out touring for donations for a new SBC worship hall.

Who needs to know? The woman looked up at him, though he couldn’t quite see her face. The light shone on her ruined feet, her scarred legs, each bone showing sharp through her skin, translucent and fragile as onionskin.

Nobody, he said. I mean, I don’t care, I just don’t want you to—

Okay, then, the woman said, standing up. Christopher heard the crack of her ankles and knees. Go about your business, she said. Get on. She waved him away. Get out of here. Get on home. She had to keep her hands down to keep them from shaking. What was he doing out here with all that light, shining it into the house? Was he with the Sheriff’s? Was he one of Glenn’s friends, here to keep tabs on her, rat her out?

You know Glenn? She asked as he bent over to retrieve his lamp. You know Glenn?

The woman’s hands shook by her sides. When he stood up, the light flashed across her stomach, her chest, her face. She was missing a front tooth. Her mouth flaked with dry skin, cracked and bleeding at the sides. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes, a light blue, seemed huge, like the eyes of a cartoon character.

I don’t know any Glenn, he said. I don’t think I do, at least.

The woman nodded. I bet you don’t, she said, shaking her head. Her body shook: she was shivering in July.

Why don’t you come to my house, he said, instead of that trailer?

A moment of kindness, he thought, I can deliver some kindness. He had rarely had the opportunity to do so in the past, not like this. This woman might die. He imagined himself feeding her soup, sitting up with her as she wretched and shivered the crank away. She’d fill out. She might be beautiful when it was all over with. She might be grateful to him.

We can call your family, he said, have them come get you. We can take you somewhere safe.

Fuck, she thought. Fuck you, Glenn. Somewhere safe and clean like the hospital. Somewhere safe and clean like the jail. Clean had never helped her.

You just go on now, she said. Her voice rose shrill and cracked on now. Her bony hands fidgeted violently at her sides. Christopher nodded, holding his hands up.

Ok, he said. Ok. No problem. He turned and adjusted the headlamp so it shone straight forward across the path of broken leaves and mud that led out into the road.

He was going to go, she wanted him to go, but he couldn’t. There were few times in Christopher’s life when he had had the opportunity to do something courageous. It would be heroic to help this woman who was so hungry and fucked up she was hardly a person anymore. He’d take her to the house, have her call someone, give her food. He turned, forgetting about the light on his head.

Look, he said, why don’t you come back—

She leapt upon him from somewhere below the light, as quick as an animal. She had something hard and sharp—a rock, a broken bottle, something that both cut and bludgeoned the thin skin around his throat: he could feel the blood. He had time to wonder what it was, to try to swat her away, but that was all, before she hit the artery or vein, he could never remember which it was that beat in the throat, that squirted blood into her face. He clutched his throat: she had jumped up and away and he could not see her. He heard, vaguely, leaves shuffling and then nothing. It had happened so quickly. He had the thought
she’ll be in trouble when somebody finds out
and wished that he had learned her name so he could tell who had done this.
But I won’t be able to say anything when they find me.

He had a few minutes to fully register this fact before his vision went dim.

He would not be able to be brave. He wouldn’t get to help the girl. He tried to shout; there were houses nearby, nestled in the trees. He could not make sounds come from his mouth, and the attempt filled his throat with blood. He tried to breathe through is nose, his hands beating against the ground until his hands grew tired and heavy and it was easier to let them fall than to hold them up.

12

I think I found it, Jonathan shouted, motioning Emily over. 1965. Right at the end of the article. I see your mother’s name. He sat up in his chair and squinted at the screen. Emily hung over Jonathan’s shoulder, squinting at the worn type.

COLLINS GIRL MISSING:

Family Searches For Answers

Constance Collins, thirteen, the youngest daughter of Edward and Mercy Collins, went missing somewhere between Heartshorne Middle School and her home on August, 23rd, says Sheriff Morgan Deeds. “We are searching the area and
ask for the cooperation of anyone who has seen or heard any sign of this young woman.”

Edward Collins, the father of the missing girl, told
The Heartshorne Star
that he believes the girl is safe and well and that somebody in the Heartshorne community has more information. “I think she’s somewhere here in town. Somebody better step forward and say something.”

Constance, called “Connie” by her family, was last seen leaving Heartshorne Junior High School. She had in her possession a few school textbooks and was wearing a yellow sweater, black skirt, and black shoes.

Sheriff Deeds asks that any able-bodied men volunteer for the search party on Sunday, 4:00 PM.

At the top of the page was a school photograph of her mother that Emily had never seen before. In this photo, Connie’s hair was slicked back into a complicated updo. She wore a pleated skirt that reached down past her knees and a white, button-up shirt, tucked in. She had a woman’s figure, her breasts and hips prominent, and stood up straight, smiling directly into the camera.

Jesus Christ, Emily said. She ran away. Or was kidnapped. Does it say? Does it say what happened?

I don’t know, he said. That’s the end of the article. Let’s look at the next day. They skimmed the headlines for three days, passed advertisements for overalls and shoes, wigs, and Roys Cardinal grocery store, which had a sale: hamburger for five cents a pound.

Look. Jonathan hovered his finger above a headline:
Local Girl Found Safe.

Constance Collins, thirteen, was found safe wandering the streets of Heartshorne after a three-day-search.

Emily laughed in surprise. The streets? She said. What streets?

Constance has been hospitalized for dehydration and minor cuts and bruises. She claims to have no memory of her wherabouts for three days, and there has been little luck in gathering evidence about her location during this time period. “We are still on the case, but we have no leads yet,” said Sheriff Deeds. “We still hope to hear from somebody who can give us the information we need.”

Emily stood up straight. She pushed her hair away from her face and sighed. Wow, she said.

Fuck, Jonathan said in return, looking up at her, pointing at her mother’s photograph. There’s your Tower.

He took her to dinner afterward, though she protested that she had taken too much of his time already. He brought her to a restaurant with cloth napkins and candles burning at each table, the tea candle floating in blue oil in a small crystal glass.

Oh Jesus, she said. I’m not dressed for this. She wore a brown t-shirt and jeans. She’d been in a small room for hours and smelled of dust and old books and lemon furniture polish.