Hippie House (18 page)

He broke into tears again. It was the dishes. It seemed that every time he opened the cupboard when he was staying in the motel, it had reminded him there were four plates, four cups, four saucers and four bowls.

We invited him to have dinner with us, but Uncle Bud wanted to remain in the car. In his own words, he told us that he had not come to crash our party and that we should just go ahead and have a good time. We were not to give him a second thought.

“Okay,” Hetty agreed more quickly than I thought she should have. “If you insist.”

From the table in the restaurant we could see him shift between two positions. He would either be staring straight ahead, all mopey-faced with his lower lip extended and eyes drooping, or his head would be down while his shoulders shook with grief. There were five of us at our table: Megan, Hetty and me and Megan's friends Holly and Rose.

“It's pathetic,” Hetty told us. “He can't even go ten minutes without breaking into tears.”

“I think it's rather sad,” Rose decided. “To be rendered helpless by love. To be reduced to a quivering jellyfish. It's romantic, don't you think?”

We all looked out at Uncle Bud again. He was in shoulder-shaking mode. I thought Hetty was a little harsh, but I also didn't see a lot of romance in the sight of a puffy-eyed, forty-five-year-old man crying in a station wagon all alone.

“Maybe we should ask him to join us,” Holly suggested.

Hetty quickly said no. She'd eaten every meal in the last few days with Uncle Bud bawling across the table from her. She needed a break.

Before our dinner came, Megan opened her gifts. I gave her the pair of plum-colored elephant pants I had seen her looking at in Maury's store. Holly and Hetty gave her the same album, Grand Funk Railroad. She said that was okay, she'd save the extra for someone else's birthday. Rose gave her three differently colored crocheted bun holders for when her hair was in a granny knot. We all looked out at Uncle Bud again. He was just pulling a large handkerchief from his pocket. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. He blew his nose hard and for a moment it looked as though he might have stopped crying.

“Maybe that's it,” Megan said.

“Oh no,” Hetty assured her.

And within a few seconds, Uncle Bud began crying again.

“This is ridiculous.” Megan started to get up from the table. “I can't stand him sitting out there crying while I'm trying to have a birthday in here. I'm going to ask him to come in.”

Hetty quickly stood up to block her from leaving. Megan sat down again. Mr. Gillespie brought our chicken in a basket. We began to eat, forgetting all about Uncle Bud for the next little while. We didn't think about him until he was guided roughly through the door with a detective flanking him on either side. He looked absolutely mortified.

“Do you young ladies know this man?” one of them asked.

“Uncle Bud!” Hetty jumped up from her seat. “Yes, that's Uncle Bud,” she said to the officer who had asked the question. “He drove us here. He's watching out for us tonight.”

The detectives appeared surprised.

“I told you,” Uncle Bud muttered, pulling his arm free from one of the officers' grip.

The other officer let go of his arm and they both stepped aside.

“Our apologies, sir,” the same one who had spoken said. “But considering what's gone on in the last few months, it's best if you try not to look like you're sitting in a car, spying on young girls.”

Poor Uncle Bud. It only added insult to injury. Hetty relented and we asked him to sit down. We piled all the chicken and potato salad we hadn't eaten yet onto a plate and passed it down his way. While he ate, Megan showed him the Grand Funk albums, the plum-colored elephant pants and the crocheted bun nets from Rose.

FINALLY, IN THE THIRD WEEK
of April, we had something to look forward to. A school dance. Too many things had already been cancelled and our social lives had become stifled and very small. The dance was supposed to have followed a Miles for Million walk-a-thon. Student council had planned the walk to raise money in aid of the starving children in Third World countries. But after Fiona's body was found, parents and teachers cancelled the walk to Shelburne. It was the idea of a large part of the high school population spread fifteen miles along the rural highway that panicked them. The dance, however, would be allowed to go ahead.

This was a chance for Megan to finally wear her jumpsuit. It was a chance to just hang around and be together. We always had live bands at school dances, and The Rectifiers were booked to play that night.

Before the band had played even a note, the dark gym was bulging with people wanting more than anything to have a good time. Eric was on stage adjusting his amplifier and testing the microphone. Jimmy was tuning his guitar. Miles was standing in front of the stage talking with friends. Malcolm didn't seem to be around.

I knew Eric was beginning to seriously worry about Malcolm. Over the last couple of months he'd become progressively less dependable. He didn't show up when he said he would, and although he hadn't dropped out of school, if he didn't go a little more often he wasn't going to graduate in June. His behavior
suggested that he was doing a lot of drugs, heavy stuff, acid and mescaline. But what was most disturbing to his friends was the fact that he was doing them by himself. Nobody knew where he was getting them. If they did, they would have found a way to cut him off.

Eric didn't usually tell me much about his personal life, or at least the parts he thought it best I didn't know. But he was truly concerned about Malcolm. I may have learned some of what I did because in trying to make sense of Malcolm's behavior, Eric was thinking out loud.

A month before the dance, Malcolm's friends were convinced he'd completely flipped out when he holed up in a storage closet beneath a stairwell at school. Until a janitor discovered the heap of butts behind the door, it had been a favorite spot to have a smoke when it was too cold to go outside.

It was the teachers, Malcolm had told Eric and Jimmy when they finally tracked him to the closet. Mr. Wellington, the drama teacher, and Mrs. Irwin, who taught him math. He'd seen them discussing him at a distance in the smoking area during lunch hour. Mr. Wellington had raised a hand as if to scratch his forehead—a signal that they were onto him— and then had suddenly left. Malcolm knew it was only to get reinforcements. He couldn't leave the school in case Mr. Wellington already had it surrounded. He planned to wait it out in the closet while he considered his escape.

Eric had to get Miles out of class to talk some sense into Malcolm and take him home.

But Miles didn't know what to do himself anymore. Things weren't any less strange at home. Malcolm had stopped eating with the family at the table, preferring to eat in his room alone. He'd been going out at strange hours—often not leaving until after midnight and sometimes not coming home until six in the morning. Miles had no idea where he went or what he was doing.
A few nights before Malcolm hid in the storage closet, Miles had heard his brother in his bedroom arguing so loudly he thought his father must have gone in and confronted him. Miles opened the door. Malcolm was standing on his bed, red in the face and furiously shaking a fist. He was accusing the poster of Alice Cooper on his wall of stealing a twenty-dollar bill.

Half an hour after the band was to begin, Malcolm still hadn't shown up. People on the floor began to get restless. Miles left for a while, probably to make a few phone calls and see if he could track down his brother. He obviously wasn't successful because he returned to the stage, shrugged when Eric and Jimmy questioned him, and sat down at his drums. Jimmy filled in the vocals when the three band members started without Malcolm, who normally sang and played rhythm guitar.

The dance was a tame affair. Everyone was on their best behavior; we were so thankful to do something other than sit at home. Megan was dancing, and Hetty and I were standing watching the band when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Donny Russell.

I had missed talking to Donny since
Oliver
! was over. I had seen him, but it was always from a distance. We were never close enough to talk. I often wondered how he was doing and what he thought of Fiona being murdered. I had wondered if it made him feel any better, which sounds callous, but I thought that then he would know his family wasn't alone or that Katie wasn't alone in the horrible thing that had happened to her.

After he tapped me on the shoulder, it took me a few seconds to recognize him. He'd had his hair cut very short, which was a bit of a shock because it was not the fashion at the time. Except perhaps among prison inmates and military men.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” I couldn't help it—it was impossible not to comment. I tapped my head. “Your hair. I almost didn't recognize you.”

“Yeah.” He pulled a hand across the bristles. “Something different.”

I was curious. “Why'd you do it?”

He shook his head like he couldn't hear me. Taking my hand, he led me through the crowd into the hallway. The music faded behind us and human voices took on a much larger sound.

“What did you say?”

“I just wondered why you cut it.”

Donny shrugged. “It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

There was something puzzling in his smile, and I wondered if it had been his choice to cut it so short or if it had just seemed the right thing to do in a fit of anger or grief.

“Listen, I thought maybe you'd like to go to the cafeteria and get something to eat.”

I said that I would.

Donny and I didn't talk about Katie or Fiona that night, but we did spend the rest of the dance together. When The Rectifiers quit and Eric and his friends were packing up their equipment, he walked me out to the parking lot where Hetty and Megan were already waiting in the station wagon with Uncle Bud.

ERIC GOT A CALL FROM MILES
early the next morning. We were all in the kitchen eating breakfast when he answered the phone. After saying hello, he immediately asked what was up with Malcolm. This was followed by a long period of silence as he listened to the answer. His face drooped visibly and although he opened his mouth to speak, the words never left his lips.

“There's no way” was his only comment after listening for several minutes. “There's no way. It's impossible,” he repeatedly disagreed.

Finally he hung up. His gaze wandered over to where Mom, Dad and I sat eating our cereal. He continued to look at us like we didn't exist.

“What is it?” my father asked.

“Malcolm. He's in the hospital. There's a police guard standing outside his door. He's been arrested.”

“For what?!” Mom summed up our surprise.

Eric paused to take a breath. “For killing Katie Russell.”

We stared at him in amazement, although I don't think anyone was quite as amazed at the news as my brother was.

“It's impossible,” he repeated again. He seemed to be straining every muscle in his body to remain in control.

Dad attempted to console him, trying to convince Eric that it was obviously a mistake and they would get to the bottom of it. A hoax. It could be that someone's joke got out of hand. Such things certainly happened.

Eric shook his head in a way that told us this was not the case. He began to pace back and forth as he tried to hold himself together. I remember thinking how our large kitchen suddenly did not seem nearly large enough to accommodate his nervous steps.

It was Maury who had spotted Malcolm wandering down the middle of the street just before nine o'clock the night before. He was about to close the store when he heard car horns blaring. He glanced out the window to see a figure weaving down the center line of the road. A small wave of traffic had backed up. Recognizing it was Malcolm and that he was wearing jeans but no shirt, Maury grabbed his jacket and hurried outside. He hailed Malcolm from the side of the road but was ignored. Maury ran into the street, draped the jacket around Malcolm's shoulders, steered him around the cars, and guided him into the store. He tried to get him to sit down, to warm up and calm down. But he wouldn't sit down. He was shaking, confused and disoriented. Maury assumed that Malcolm was strung out on something.

Maury attempted to talk him back to reality. He told him he'd seen the dance posted and asked Malcolm why he wasn't at the school. Malcolm didn't answer but only muttered to himself.

From what Maury could understand, he said that everyone knew he'd done it now. He didn't think they'd figure it out but they did. To be honest, he had to give them credit. He didn't think they were that smart, but he now heard them talking about it everywhere he went. Especially at school. The teachers. Mr. Wellington had figured it out. And the girls in the hall. They would warn each other and walk the other way as soon as they saw him coming.

Maury asked what he was talking about. What were the girls at school warning each other about?

In answer to Maury's questions, Malcolm stopped talking. He turned suddenly, looking at Maury with surprise, as if until then he'd been unaware of his presence in the room. He told him he must be the only one in town who didn't know. They didn't go near him because he was a murderer. He killed Katie Russell. Hadn't Maury heard? He'd strangled her with a guitar string at Jenkins' farm.

When Eric finished telling us this amazing story, he dropped into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. We sat in disbelief, trying to digest what he had told us.

“This is such a drag!” Eric was on his feet again. “I can't believe it! My own friend. Why would he do it? It's so sick!”

Perhaps because Eric was so upset, I was able to keep my own emotions under control. But I do remember thinking it was very difficult to believe. It was just too bizarre that a friend of my brother could do something so violent and continue to live among us like he'd done nothing at all.