Hippie House (9 page)

John, my uncle would answer in his patient way, cars pass at all hours of the night, it is not an unusual occurrence. And even the scream of a woman could not be heard through the branches of the woods and then carry a quarter of a mile. And if, under perfect conditions it did reach his ears, it would be indecipherable, just another of the transient sounds of the night.

Yes, my father would say, nodding his head. Yes, you are right.

Dad would fall into deep thought at the dinner table while Mom slapped our food before us. I had seen him late in the evening, outside my brother's door, lift his hand, think again and move away.

It finally became necessary for me to see the site of the murder for myself. It was early in the Christmas holidays, but the day itself had not yet passed, and by then my movements around the farm were no longer as closely scrutinized. I was able to slip out without explanation while Mom was on the phone.

Halley led the way past the barn, where my heart sank at the sight of the muddied and trampled airfield. It had snowed only once since the discovery of the body and not long enough to
conceal the ruts dug by vehicles and the tracks left by many men. These tracks spread widely down the hill and through the woods, and I thought how it was as if a troop of soldiers had swept down on the farm, leaving behind broken branches and primrose that would not flower again in the spring.

It was odd to round the corner in the woods and not see the familiar sight of the Hippie House ahead. Instead, through the branches I could see five hundred feet to the road where the barricade was still in place. Stopping on the bank of Fiddlehead Creek, I could hear the small trickle of water as it struggled beneath the ice. I looked across to where the Hippie House had stood.

My father and uncle had been thorough. There were no stray boards or forgotten shingles to be seen. The fresh layer of snow had left a twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle on the ground in the building's absence, and I believed that if I crossed the creek I would not find a single nail.

It was hard for me to imagine the horror that had taken place on this spot I had known for so much of my life. Instead, I imagined Dad with his feet up on the stove. I could hear the fire crackle as I fed it newspapers and smell the fresh paint. I could see Eric with Jimmy and the rest of the band in the beginning—excited by what they were doing, grappling with a new song, spilling out the doorway during breaks and, despite their sweatbands, wiping perspiration from their brows.

Mr. and Mrs. Fraser drove past on the main road. I returned their wave before turning away. My father was wrong to think that he should have heard anything the night Katie Russell was killed. I could only now hear the abrasive sound of the weather vane turning on the tractor shed because I knew it well. It was a sound I had heard so often it had become a part of my life. Who would believe that the flicker of a voice on a winter wind in the dead of night was a woman's dying breath?

WE WERE VERY LATE
in getting our Christmas tree up that year. Handing us ten dollars, my father sent Eric and me to the tree lot in Pike Creek two days before Christmas. This was instead of making an event of it by pulling our sleigh into the woods and selecting one from the area Dad had reserved. Our gifts to one another were few and unsurprising as we lacked both the enthusiasm and the freedom to be creative. And when Aunt Alice vied for the dinner to be held at her house, my mother agreed without argument.

Ross and Lyle returned to Pike Creek and their families on Christmas Eve. Eric said it was probably because they discovered that they were not wanted anywhere else. Most small towns already had their fair share of punks, and in any larger place they would quickly lose credibility as being “tough,” given that they really were only an act. In the real world, he assured me, there were much tougher than Ross and Lyle.

Much more infrequently now, a detective would knock on the farmhouse door. He would ask for permission to re-examine the site of the murder for a new or a specific detail. My father would ask if there had been any recent developments, any new leads, to which the detective would answer that there had been many, but unfortunately, to date there was nothing too concrete. Nevertheless, he assured Dad that they followed up on every one of them and that there were many detectives working around the clock.

My aunt and uncle drew some joy from the news that Carl landed a job as assistant caretaker of the ice arena on the last day of December. No such position had existed prior to Carl filling it, but Mr. Dikkers, who assumed the title of head caretaker now that there were two of them, was getting on, and in the winter there was just so much more to be done. Carl would be responsible for driving the Zamboni around the ice, among other things.

Megan and I wandered down to the arena one Saturday afternoon. It had been ages since we'd last skated, but we discovered it was very much like riding a bicycle. Once on the ice, it was as if nothing had changed since we were ten. The little guys pushing hockey sticks twice their height and working hard on folded ankles still cut in front of us. And Mr. Chisholm, who had once played semi-professional hockey still flew around on his own. Songs like “The Locomotion” and “Big Girls Don't Cry” played loudly over the PA system as they had when my friends and I had made human chains. It seemed that Mr. Dikkers was unaware that in the last ten years music had changed. Still, there was something comforting in hearing the old songs, kids hollering back and forth, and the echo of shoulders slamming into the end boards. Particularly at that moment in time.

A horn blew, warning us it was time to clean the ice.

Megan and I sat on the bleachers, eating sponge toffee while we watched Carl maneuver the clumsy machine around the rink. As he made each circuit, he glanced forward and back again, watching that he overlapped his previous path just the right amount and ever so precisely. I was completely amazed.

“Wow,” I said. “Look at Carl. I've never seen him be so careful.”

Megan peeled the cellophane away from her sponge toffee. She looked after Carl.

“I mean, have you? He's actually paying attention. He hasn't crashed or taken a chunk out of the sideboards or wiped anybody out.”

Megan bit into the toffee. She didn't answer, but her eyes followed her brother in an interested, although somewhat skeptical, way.

Once Carl had parked the vehicle, he returned to the ice, where he stood with his hands on his hips, surveying his work. He grew indignant at the sight of a candy wrapper already
blemishing the shiny surface and he marched over to a group of boys who stood wrestling next to the gate, impatient to get back on the ice. It didn't take long for Carl to discover that the boy responsible for tossing the wrapper was Arthur Nash. Arthur was only twelve, but he was every bit as scrappy and defiant as his older brother. So when Carl ordered him to retrieve the wrapper and deposit it in the trash, he snottily refused. It was only because Carl finally took him by the collar, and because Carl was such a forbidding giant, that Arthur finally did what he was told.

We were out of practice. We decided that our ankles were far too weak to continue and removed our skates. After tying the laces together, we draped them over our shoulders and headed toward the door. A surprising accusation made us spin around.

“Hey, freak! Why'd you kill Katie Russell?!”

It was Arthur, now at a safe distance up the bleachers.

“My brother said you did it. Everybody knows it. You're stupid enough to do it too, and you live right next door!”

Arthur continued to taunt Carl, goading his friends along, who agreed with him. Carl said nothing, but stood in the center of the polished ice looking confused. Afraid to respond in the presence of his boss, he glanced helplessly in the direction of Mr. Dikkers, who was sweeping out the penalty box.

“You did it and you should fry for it!”

“Hey!” Mr. Dikkers hollered across the arena, “That'll be enough of that! Now if you kids can't be civil, go on and get out of here!”

“Creep,” Ross's brother grumbled. Laying his hockey stick across a bleacher, he fired another wrapper onto the ice and sat down to pull off his skates.

Megan made a point of passing him on our way out the door. “You'd better watch your mouth, you lying little twit, or I'll be the first to stuff a puck in it to shut you up.”

It was the first time I had heard Carl accused of killing Katie Russell, and it was the first time I had heard Megan come to her brother's defense in many years.

“Do you know that they're saying Carl did it?” I asked Eric later that night.

Eric looked up from the table where he was studying and frowned. “Yeah, I've heard. Don't listen to them. They're full of it.”

I was aware he had a test in the morning. Still, I lingered a little longer. “But do you think Carl could have done it? I mean, you know how easily he can be talked into things.”

Eric set his pencil aside, leaned forward and looked directly at me. “What do you think?”

Not being absolutely sure, and perhaps a little flustered by the impatience in the question, I shrugged.

“Come on, Emma. Carl's just stupid, he's not a criminal. You know him—think about it. Nash is only trying to shift the blame.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Oh, and whatever you do, don't tell Uncle Pat or Aunt Alice. They don't need to know.”

But Uncle Pat already had a very good idea of what was being said about Carl. He was in the habit of picking up the
Pike Creek Banner
every second Wednesday afternoon. The paper was published by Mr. and Mrs. Crossley. The couple also owned the print shop and the adjoining stationery store. Uncle Pat was standing in line, waiting for Mrs. Gillespie to pay for her stamps, when she took it upon herself to turn and offer him some advice. It might be wise, she suggested, if he and Aunt Alice were to keep close tabs on Carl for a while.

Uncle Pat glanced up from the front page of the paper. Not sure if he had heard her correctly or, in fact, if she had been speaking to him or Mrs. Crossley, who was behind the cash
register, he replied, “I'm sorry, Margaret. I was reading.” He then asked her to repeat what she had said.

“I'm only saying that, well, considering the atmosphere in town and the crazy imaginations of some people, it wouldn't hurt for you to keep a watch on Carl. You might even encourage him to abide by the curfew like the rest of the younger children are required to do.”

“But Carl is eighteen,” Uncle Pat reminded her. “He isn't one of the younger children.”

“That's true. But isn't it also true that years are not always the best measure of a child's maturity? Pat, we all admire you for what you have been able to do with Carl, but you yourself would have to admit that Carl is a perfect example of this. In any case, it might be better to err on the side of caution—although I would rather not have to put it so bluntly.”

“Margaret, do you ever put anything any other way?”

My uncle was hurt and astonished. He looked to Mrs. Crossley behind the cash register for support, but she only lowered her eyes. Uncle Pat lay his money on the counter and left without waiting for change.

I was reading in the sunroom when I overheard Uncle Pat relate to Dad what had happened in town.

“Geezus, John,” he sighed when he had finished. “And just when that kid finally seems to be getting on alright. What am I going to tell Alice? That the whole town is after her son's hide?”

I could picture him passing his large and leathery hand across his forehead as he occasionally did when the stress of Carl proved too much.

“You don't need to say anything,” Dad answered. “Just try and ride it out for a few days. Something is bound to happen—there has got to be a breakthrough. I'll bet the detectives make an arrest within the next week, in which case all this will be forgotten and Alice doesn't have to know.”

Uncle Pat was silent a moment before voicing his greatest concern. “I just hope Sam Dikkers doesn't catch wind of this.”

For Mr. Dikkers, it was the eggs smattering the east side of the arena when he arrived for work earlier than usual one morning that confirmed the rumors developing around Carl were widespread. Despite the cold, he hauled the extension ladder down from where it was stored in the drop-in center and washed the wall before Uncle Pat dropped Carl off at the arena that day. He continued to direct Carl on how to clean the ice, stock the shelves in the concession booth—although little moved that week—and clean the lockers in the change rooms.

Aunt Alice was hurt and confused by the accusing looks she was receiving in town. “What is the matter with people?” she asked my mother. “Turning their backs on us. Have they forgotten that we are one of them? Are they so frightened their brains have gone numb?”

My mother tried to calm her, but it is always difficult to sound convincing when you are not sure of something yourself. Standing before the sink and with my back to them where they sat at the kitchen table, I wiped the few remaining dishes. It was upsetting for me to see my aunt so distraught. I expected weakness from my mother; after all, she was not far removed from her privileged and somewhat temperamental roots. But my aunt had always faced up to adversity, tackling setbacks as though they were merely details to be dealt with, as inevitable as the first snowfall or the garden that needed planting in the spring.

Megan withstood allegations against her brother stoically, defending him in a way that was difficult for me to understand. Particularly as she had done her best to ignore his existence over the previous five years.

“Where was your brother that night?” Mandy Green asked when we stopped to chat on the steps of the public library. “Not
that I believe he had anything to do with it, but you know what people are saying, and just out of curiosity.”

“He was at home,” Megan answered. “Reading. Magazines in his room. He's not much for books, but Carl does like to read a lot of magazines.”