Fear Has a Name: A Novel (11 page)

15

Hunched over a small, creaky desk in his stifling basement apartment, Granger Meade knew the authorities would be coming for him soon.

He let out a sigh and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the shoulder of his tight black T-shirt.

Nothing ever went right.

Fingering the letter he’d just finished writing, he dropped the pen on the desk and stared up at the dreamy photographs of Pamela taped to the entire cinderblock wall in front of him like a patchwork collage.

Many of the photos—color, sepia tone, black-and-white—he had taken on Pamela’s wedding day with a telephoto lens as he sat in his car across the street from the church. There she was, in the poster-size black-and-white at the center of the mix, coming down the front steps of the church, a lovely hand at her forehead, blocking the rice being tossed by well-wishers.

Granger’s already-failing heart had been irreparably damaged that windy spring afternoon. His lofty dream of a future with Pamela had been swept away that day, the only genuine friend he’d ever known claimed by another. It didn’t matter by whom. It could have been Jack Crittendon or Brad Pitt; the fact was, she was now officially off limits. At least by moral standards, and according to the Christian doctrine to which she adhered.

A flash of rage alit within him. His mother and father had called themselves Christian. They’d played their roles at church, putting on masks of piety and righteousness on Sundays and Wednesdays and every other day the blasted place was open. Yet they were hypocrites of the worst kind. Miserable. Hateful. Self-seeking and self-righteous. In their own deceived minds, they were above everyone else, yet in reality they were the lowest of low.

Scum.

Bottom-dwelling
scum
.

He’d almost put an end to them, that one Christmas night.

What stopped me?

Little had his father and mother known how close they’d come to being smothered to death by their oddball son, who’d stood over each one of them as they slept. The pillow had been in his sweaty hands, inches from his father’s gaping, snoring trap, within a foot of his mother’s poisonous, scorn-filled mouth.

Oh, how he’d longed to shut off the flow that beat him down and weakened him like the melting desert sun each day of his rotten life.

They’d sung in the choir Christmas Eve, his mother and father. Candles burning. Faces glowing. Wreaths smelling of pine. They took Communion. They hugged their friends and handed out their cheap little gifts.

When they arrived back at the close, warm house, Granger gathered blankets, thinking they might allow him to sleep inside. It had been a good evening, his parents’ favorite time of year.

“What are you doing?” Mother’s grating voice pierced him to the wall.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said softly.

Mother and Father stared at each other.

Father looked as if he might concede, but not Mother.

Not even close.

Her ghostly face broke out with burning red splotches, and she lit into Granger once again for not paying attention at the service, for not singing right, for sitting alone like some “retard,” for embarrassing her and Father by being such an “awkward oddity.” One night in the shed would be his punishment.

He retreated to the cold, damp mattress in the tool shed. Late into the night he lay awake, damp to the core, wrestling with the mythical Christmas story, listening to the mice scurry about, hating himself, his parents, the classmates who bullied him—the whole world.

On Christmas morning he’d crept inside, frozen to the bone, and curled up on the heater vent on the kitchen floor to thaw out before his parents awoke. Father made cocoa and handed him a cup. They sat by the manger scene and tree, and with great anticipation he gave his parents the gifts he’d saved up for—a new Bible for each of them, both with genuine leather covers. Mother’s turned out to be the “wrong version,” and she insisted the print in Father’s was too small.

In the back of his mind, Granger had known the gifts would be wrong; some way, somehow—wrong. But still, her ugly comments hollowed him inside and made him feel inadequate, clumsy, and sick to his stomach.

Granger received two pairs of wool socks in a Walmart bag and a blue-and-gray-checked flannel jacket that used to be Father’s and smelled of Old Spice. Gifts that would keep him warm when he was forced outside, away from them, where he belonged.

Later that night he almost choked the life out of them.

He was glad he hadn’t, for one reason: he didn’t want to look bad in Pamela’s eyes. After all, it would have made national news.

Sitting there at the desk in the glow of the computer light, he laid the letter down, gave a hard cough, and reached for the ratty-looking pack of Newports sitting next to a box of saltines and a can of Red Bull on the floor. Knocking one of the smokes from the pack, he tapped it on the back of his hand, flipped it to the corner of his mouth, lit, and inhaled mightily till the tobacco glowed orange.

Look at her …

He exhaled, blowing a stream of smoke up toward a photo of Pamela in which her full lips curved into a mischievous smile. Some of the pictures had been lifted from the husband’s laptop, reprinted, and enlarged. Her marble-brown eyes were dazzling. She had soft, bouncy blonde hair, worn in many different styles over the years, and her figure was curvy and full—a dream.

Did she know he was not “after her” in a physical way? Not yet, anyway. She must know. She knew him back then. She knew he would never hurt her, the one true source of joy he’d ever discovered. The thought of coming across to Pam as some kind of sexual predator felt so villainous.

He was always misunderstood.

But you smashed your way into her home. You tried to frame Jack. At the bridge, you pointed the knife at her and slashed the tire …

Messed up, messed up, messed up.

His whole life was a mistake.

Why had God let him be born?

He slid the ashtray over and flicked the cigarette with his thumb, knocking a few flakes of ash onto the pile of a dozen butts. Shoving his chair back a foot, he buried his sweaty head in his hands.

Why couldn’t you just let her be? Let her live her life …

You’re tormenting her—and her girls.

The kiddy porn he’d dumped on the husband’s laptop wasn’t his. He’d bought it off some pervert at the bowling alley where he worked.

She’s going to hate you, you know that, don’t you? She thinks you’re some sadistic, psychotic goon.

“It’s not true,” he moaned. “That is
not
me …”

But it was. Although he didn’t want to live like a monster, he was going through the motions, almost like some kind of programmed demon.

Maybe he was just a bad seed, as Mother had always declared.

“There are vessels of honor and vessels of dishonor,” she would say. “You, my son, are clearly a vessel of dishonor. I don’t bother to ask the Potter why. We do not question the Potter. We are simply the clay in his hands. I can’t help it if he stuck your father and me with a bad lump like you.”

Maybe he was a hideous, ugly mental case with no brain. Maybe he was destined for destruction, a lawbreaker who would spend the rest of his life in some concrete prison with peeling paint, fighting off rapists and felons and eating slop.

Maybe that’s where you want to be.

Maybe it’s the safest place for you, for everyone.

He sat up, leaned back in the chair, and—
puhhhhhhh
—took a deep, loud hit of the smoke, wishing it would give him instant cancer and he’d die in that hot, cramped apartment.

A handful of the photos on the wall were childhood keepsakes he’d hung onto all those years, including class photos and yearbook pictures. There to the right was Pamela’s seventh-grade picture—the friend and confidant whom he remembered so vividly. He’d thought of her night and day while growing up as a boy and young man in their Cleveland suburb; much more than she’d ever realized.

But now she knew. Now she knew he had her on his brain.

And so did the police, he was certain.

The cat was out of the proverbial bag.

Granger hadn’t meant to scare her by breaking into her house through the front door. He was panicked himself. The sight of her had snapped something within him and driven him into a blazing frenzy. And then the night at the bridge, he’d just wanted to talk, that was all. Oh, to talk to her again like when they were kids. That’s all he’d wanted, he’d have sworn it on his mother’s no-good Bible. He hadn’t meant to pull her hair, to hurt her. That was the last thing he would ever want. But Pamela hadn’t recognized him. She acted as if he was some kind of fiend.

Then she tried to run me down.

He took one last drag, let the smoke drift out of his O-shaped mouth, and inhaled every last gray vapor up his nose. It burned, and he liked it. He wished again that it would kill him. His fat, yellowish fingers warmed as he mashed the cigarette in the ashtray. His soul felt stained, just like his fingers.

If he could just think clearly, make a few more good, sound decisions—keep the Devil at bay. He knew one thing: he needed to make things right with Pamela. That was the only thing that mattered now. He couldn’t think beyond that.

The brown cardboard box he’d prepared earlier sat on the yellow Formica table in the dinky kitchen beneath a cheap hanging light. It contained Pamela’s jewelry and the girl’s locket.

This is good. You’re doing what’s right. Just hurry up and see it through.

It would be dangerous to deliver the box and letter to her home, but that was the next move on the agenda. He knew he could not come back to the apartment. Cops would be there within twenty-four hours max, he guessed. He would throw his clothes and essentials into his leather duffel, do the deed at Pam’s house, and ditch the car somewhere.

Then what?

He couldn’t last much longer in that town. When they ran the sketch of him in the paper—even though there wasn’t much resemblance—he was forced to quit his job at the bowling alley. Someone was sure to recognize him or put two and two together—probably already had.

Granger needed to get away from there. Out of Ohio. Far away. That would be the best way he could show his love to her.

What was love, anyway?

He had no idea.

The only taste of it he ever got was from Pamela, back in the day.

Now he could return the favor—by letting her go.

Yes, go away. Far away. Leave her alone. Never interfere in her life again. Set her free.

That would be love.

The sheer separation would make him—force him—to let her go.

As long as he could continue on this train of thought, keep thinking clearly, being pure, doing the right thing …

But he knew it wouldn’t last.

No, don’t think that way …

The Devil always returned.

Always.

Just like Mother said: “You sweep the house clean. You try to be good, morally. But if you ain’t surrendered your life to him, the Devil will come back with a vengeance, and he’ll have all his rowdy, rat-pack hooligan demons with him. Then they’ll really make a mess of things.”

How else could he show his love for her?

Take her.

No. You mustn’t. That’s not what she wants.

Show her what life could be like.

It was the Devil knocking, see? He was right there. He was always right there. He was in Granger’s head. Granger could only do what was right for so long, and then …

Hurry. Get going. Return the stuff before it’s too late. Before you change your mind. Before you start thinking and planning and dwelling on how to take her.

There’d been a plan.

It will be messy at first. I’ll have to take her by force. But she’ll get used to me. She’ll see I’m not going to hurt her. Then she’ll come around. She’ll love me again.

He made his mind go blank; then he stood, folded the letter, walked it to the box, and slipped it inside. He taped the box shut and fetched his leather bag.

“The spirit’s willing,” Mother would say, “but the flesh is weak.”

Keep moving.

Get your stuff in the bag.

Get the box to Pam. Don’t think about her. Just deliver it and get away.

Far away.

Before you change your mind.

16

A calming breeze blew down on Pamela from the ceiling fan, and the smell of fresh-baked cookies drifted into the family room from the kitchen. The girls, in their oversized flowered aprons, had helped her bake several batches of oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies and were enjoying their bounty on the screened porch. They sat across from each other at a small table, sipping tea and, of course, wearing their long dresses, bonnets, and plastic high heels. She didn’t know how they could stand the heat, but they seemed content, gabbing like young marrieds.

The girls were so enthralled in their conversation, Pamela didn’t think they even noticed when she meandered out and latched both screen doors. She was still in hyper-security mode and probably would be for a long time. At that moment, she hoped Granger’s apartment had been raided and he was in custody—above all, for the girls’ sake. How it would play out from there—if there would be a trial, whether Pamela would need to testify—was anybody’s guess.

As usual on Sunday afternoons, Jack had fallen asleep long-ways at the foot of their king-size bed upstairs. They had made up sweetly and enjoyed some peace and quiet together before he drifted off. He’d listened as she explained everything there was to know about her history with Granger. She had a feeling, however, that Jack was a lot more understanding than he would have been if the police had not been on their way to apprehend the man.

She put her bare feet up on the ottoman and opened the Sunday
Dispatch
. As always, she looked first for anything with Jack’s byline. This week he had a piece about parents who had lost one or more children to death. Seventy percent of those bereaved couples ended up getting divorced, the story read.

Pamela loved Jack’s feature articles. As opposed to hard news like crime and politics, feature stories gave him the opportunity to be creative and showcase his emotions and sensitivity. The story she’d just finished was about Compassionate Friends, a national group of volunteers comprised of parents who’d lost children through death and helped others make it through similar grief.

Pamela couldn’t fathom losing Faye or Rebecca. It was one of those unspokens she always tried to prepare herself for in the recesses of her mind, yet couldn’t imagine actually living through. She knew if it ever happened, it would be God’s plan. She knew that in head knowledge, but losing one of them would be earth shattering. Would she have the faith to endure such an ordeal? Part of her feared she wouldn’t be able to overcome the bitterness toward God that would surely come in the days after.

If it happened, it would be meant for a purpose.

But, oh, the suffering it would bring.

You would be forced to deal with it. You would cope, because you would have to.

But the constant wishing, longing, yearning for a smile, a kiss, a hug.

Life would never be the same. You would live waiting for heaven.

Did other people think about such things? Or was all of her fear simply a behavior she had learned from her mom? She thought about confronting her mother in hopes of finding out why Margaret was so afraid—was it a behavior her mother had learned from her parents?

Pamela wanted more children; she envisioned them growing up, loving and encouraging each other, from childhood to adulthood. But maybe she wanted more, too, because she was afraid; afraid of losing one of them, or two. Afraid of what God might allow for whatever reason.

The back door opened, and Rebecca led Faye in by the hand, both holding up their dresses, ankles wobbling on pink high heels.

“Mommy, can we each have one more cookie?” Faye asked. “That will be all.”

Sometimes Pamela was certain Rebecca put Faye up to such stunts, thinking Mommy would more readily say yes to the littler of the two. Sometimes Rebecca was right.

“Por favor, señora?”
Rebecca added in her most sophisticated tone.

Pamela sat up, trying not to smile. “Two more, that’s it.”

She began organizing various sections of newspaper, sorting out the ads and classifieds. She glanced at a front-page story about a thirty-seven-year-old family man who’d been beaten almost to death by two thugs the night before at a convenience store. He was clinging to life, and what kind of life he would have if he lived was yet to be seen.

There were bad people out there. So many. All around.

Granger Meade had become one of them.

How Pamela wished she could turn back the hands of time and share with him the only thing that made her any different from him, or even different from her mother, for that matter, who was afraid to walk out her front door in the morning. It was the only thing that made
anyone
safe or unafraid or sane or somewhat stable in that chaotic world: a relationship with Jesus. Pamela was going in, in, in. Deeper inside the High Tower than she’d ever been. He was the creator of the universe. The one who gave the seas their boundaries, kept the snow in its storehouses, and told the lightning where to strike.

She was safe with that kind of God.

How could anything harm her in that place?

But what if it did?

What if he allowed it?

She recalled the words of a song Jack loved.
On the road marked with suffering, though there’s pain in the offering,
blessed be your name.

Could Pamela bless his name if tragedy struck?

Bad things
did
happen, yes, to good people and bad. Scripture said that God caused the sun to rise on the evil and the good; he sent rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. In Proverbs it even said God made everything for its own purpose,
even the wicked for the day of evil
.

Such mysteries were terribly difficult to reconcile. The innocent guy in the paper who’d been beaten—what about his wife, his children, his job, their future? What if he was brain-dead? What could possibly be the good in it? Was there good? The thousands of bereaved parents, all this stuff with Granger, why did any of it have to happen? How did people cope? What happened to their faith, or lack of it?

Truly awful things
did
happen. People
were
shaken to the core. There
was
suffering. It was bizarre madness. How could one endure such trials?

When I am weak, then I am made strong.

That was the whole point; she couldn’t endure anything on her own. God wanted Pamela to purify herself of any hint of reliance upon herself. She’d come to think of it as an
indelible knowing
that God was in control—and she could trust him completely.

A wellspring of emotion came up from her insides to her eyes and spilled over. She slid to her knees, swept the newspapers from the ottoman, and leaned on it, burying her face in her folded arms.

“Lord, thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much. Blessed be your name.”

Silence fell.

Be still.

The house was quiet.

Then, there it was, out of nowhere.

Pray for Granger.

God had been doing things like that since she’d begun fasting—just bringing things into her mind.

“You are so radical,” she whispered. “Your love was so radical. So many hated you, but you gave your life. The least I can do is love Granger.”

The word came like a hard, refreshing rain.

Yes.

“Then I lift him up to you. Have your way in Granger’s life. I’m not in charge, you are. This isn’t up to me … Your will be done. Draw him to you, Lord.”

Perhaps God’s plan would be to save his soul in prison.

“What you want, I want to want. Help me, Father. Help your desires become my desires.”

A thump at the front door startled her.

She stood and walked toward the door.

There was something leaning at an angle against the vertical window beside the door. A package.

It was a brown cardboard box the size of a shoe box.

She got closer, thinking she would see the FedEx man or UPS lady heading back to the delivery truck, but then realized it was Sunday—no delivery.

She stopped five feet from the door.

Heading away from the house, almost to the street, was a large man, wearing black. He looked both ways, a bounce in his stride, wearing black. He quick-stepped around the back of a … brown car.

“Jaaaack!” All of her energy and breath and strength drained from her with the scream. “It’s him!”

Granger must’ve heard Pamela’s terror-ridden scream. He stopped, hand on the driver’s door handle, staring back at the house, back at the front door—as if peering into the depths of her soul.

Can he see me?

She wanted to step back, out of sight, but was frozen there in the foyer. She wanted to look at the box. Was it a bomb? A dead animal? What had he left? But she mustn’t take her eyes off of him.

From upstairs she heard the blinds rip up, then the boom of Jack’s footsteps coming toward the top of the stairs. “Coming!”

Outside, still at his car, Granger looked up at the master bedroom window where Jack had opened the blinds, then back at the front door. His big hands went up in the air, palms to the sky, and he shook his head and frowned.

“Where’re the girls?” Jack barely hit a step as he plummeted down the staircase.

“Back porch,” she managed.

He fumbled with the big locks on the front door. “Get ’em inside. Lock it. Call the police.”

“Jack, don’t go out there!” Pamela screamed, still seemingly stuck in concrete. “I’ll call DeVry. Come back.”

The door banged open and swung back. Jack was tearing so fast toward the brown car, Pamela thought he might bulldoze the whole thing if it was still there by the time he made it to the end of the driveway.

She locked the door, turned, and made for the back porch. The girls played on cluelessly, music blaring from a small boom box. Pamela stopped hard at the back door. They would be so scared if she rushed them in and locked the doors, exposing them to the fact that the “bad man” had returned.

Maybe she should leave them out there, so they wouldn’t have to know.

She changed course and went back toward the front door.

Jack was on top of Granger, his knees pinning the large man down like a vise. Pamela’s whole body flushed as she saw a blur of white knuckles grasping, tearing, bashing; taut necks and faces; blood splattering and glistening in the sun.

The girls would have to be okay where they were. She snatched the phone from the kitchen, grabbed Officer DeVry’s business card from the side of the refrigerator, and punched his number as she headed for the front door.