Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls (13 page)

Why does everybody think I did it? Never, I would never, never never. She was no angel but I loved her. Really and truly. I wanted to marry her.

The thing is, I can see why they might think I did it. Ellie and Nora saw me on the bridge, they spread the word, but why would I have been sitting there if I'd killed them? I would of hid, I would of killed Ellie and Nora, you see what I'm saying?

But who else could of done it? The cops don't know and I don't know. And believe me, I've racked my brain till my head aches trying to come up with the killer. I think back to the party, she went off in the woods with Ralph, I saw her go, but why would he kill her and Bobbi Jo?

And the other guys, the ones that used to be my friends, I can't think of a reason for any of them to do it.

I really did see somebody in the woods but I never got a good look at him. He was off the path, in the bushes, his back was turned. I figured it was just some guy taking a leak. Now I believe I saw the killer, but I got no idea who he was or what he looked like or if he even had a gun.

I sit here on these hard steps, as close to Cheryl as I'll ever be now, and I can almost hear her saying
I'm sorry, Buddy, I wish I could tell you who killed me and Bobbi Jo.

Maybe it was a stranger, someone she didn't know, someone she'd never seen before, a crazy man in the woods. Some nut from Spring Grove. It must of been. There's nobody else.

I put my head on my knees and whisper her name over and over again, Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl, until it becomes a sound, a whisper of wind, and it isn't her name and she's not dead but at home, sleeping in her bed.

I think of her back in the old days when she was my girl and it's my ring she wears on a chain around her neck and we're in my car, parked on a dead-end street near the lake. It's a cold night and the moon shines on her face, on her long blond hair, and the Platters are singing "The Magic Touch" and we've made out so long the windows are steamed up and we both have the magic touch and it's wonderful wonderful.

Damn it to hell, I love that girl and I want her back and if I find out who took her away from me I'll kill the bastard.

T
HE
next morning, Mom drives me to St. John the Divine for Bobbi Jo's funeral. Just her and me. Daddy's at work and Billy's afraid to see a dead person. I'm wearing the only other suitable outfit I own, a full purple skirt over a crinoline, a white blouse printed with tiny purple flowers, and my white pumps, slightly run down at the heels and scuffed on the toes. Since it's a Requiem Mass, I'm also wearing a little white straw hat and white gloves.

The first thing I see at the church is the hearse parked at the curb. It's big and black, clean and shiny. The sunlight bounces off the windshield and hurts my eyes. I turn my head. I don't want to think about the hearse. And where it's going.

People go slowly up the church steps and through the doors and they're wearing black and their heads are bowed. My stomach lurches and I feel empty, hollow, like nothing is real.

Mom parks and gets out of the car. "Come on, Nora," she says gently. "It's almost time for Mass to begin."

The church windows are open and the fans whir but nothing helps. It's stifling hot. Bobbi Jo's white coffin is in front of the altar, flanked by dozens of wreaths and sprays of flowers. The organist plays "
Ave Maria
" softly, a song that always makes me cry for something I don't have and don't even know about.

We dip our fingers into the holy water, genuflect, and make the sign of the cross. Even though we're half an hour early, almost all the seats are filled. We find a pew with room for us both and kneel to pray. Mom has her rosary. I hear the beads click. She bends her head. The brim of her hat hides her face.

I try hard to come up with a prayer, but I can't. Instead I stare at Christ hanging on his cross, his body twisted, his wounds bloody, his face racked with pain.

why did you let them die why did you let it happen what kind of God are you I can't believe in you anymore

I hold my breath and wait. Surely I'll be struck dead for thinking thoughts like this in church. Nothing happens. He isn't there, he didn't hear, he doesn't care.

Trickles of sweat run down my back. I glance at Mom, still kneeling, still praying. Why can't I believe like I used to? What's wrong with me? I close my eyes so tightly I see blackness like space, the unending empty universe I'm spinning through along with everyone else in this church, in this world, roll'd round, roll'd round, roll'd round on earth's diurnal course, first morning then noon then night, death, eternal darkness, let the perpetual light shine, let the midnight special shine its light on me...

That's what goes through my head instead of the prayer I'm trying to say. I'm crazy, bad, possessed by the devil, the priest will try to get rid of him and when that doesn't work they'll lock me up forever in Spring Grove.

Beside me, Mom sits with a sigh. The pew creaks.

I give up on prayer and sit back. Mom pats my hand. What if she knew her daughter, the one sitting beside her in the purple skirt and the white blouse with the pretty little purple flowers, was thinking about insane asylums instead of praying? But then, how do I know what
she's
thinking? Or anyone else?

What if I stand up right now and say, How can you believe in a God who let this happen? I imagine faces turning to me, pale with shock. I'm scared I'll do it. I hold my hands tightly, I tense my whole body. Keep quiet, I tell myself. Don't move.

And then the priest enters and we kneel while he makes the sign of the cross. I follow the Latin in my missal, the one I was given when I was conformed, I mean
confirmed.
Back when I believed every word, when I thought God watched over us and kept us safe and if we were good—and I tried so hard to be good—we would go to heaven, maybe after a few centuries in purgatory.

"Thanks be to God." My missal translates what the priest says. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Then he clasps his hands against his chest and says in Latin, "I will go in to the Altar of God."

And the altar boys say, "To God, Who giveth joy to my youth."

The joy of my youth is gone, I think. I look around, wondering where Ellie is, wishing we were sitting together. Maybe with her beside me, I'd feel calm, I'd keep my thoughts under control.

The Mass goes on. I let the Latin fade out of hearing, I do not look at my missal. I hear quiet sobs. People cough. Sighs whisper through the church and gather around the silent coffin. A bird flies by the open window, a flash of red feathers against a blue sky.

The choir sings, "Oh, Mother dear, oh pray for me whilst far from heaven and thee, I wander in a fragile barque o'er life's tempestuous sea." It's a mournful hymn, sung slowly. My barque is so fragile, life is so tempestuous, I will sink any minute. I reach out and hold Mom's hand. Her fingers tighten on mine. Protect me, keep me safe, I beg her silently.

The communion line forms. I take my place behind Mom and move forward slowly, head bowed, hands clasped, trying to look devout, trying to believe this really is Christ's blood, Christ's flesh that I am about to receive, trying not to look at Bobbi Jo lying so still in that white coffin, but I can't keep my eyes away. All this going on around you, yet you do not hear or see, roll'd round, roll'd round in eternal light with rocks and stones and saints, forevermore with thy saints because thou art gracious and your sins are forgiven...

The priest's words mix silently with mine and I kneel to receive the body and blood of Christ,
in spiritu sanctu.
Even though I am not worthy for the Lord to enter me, I open my mouth and he puts the wafer on my tongue. It sticks to the roof of my mouth and I pry it off gently with my tongue, taking care not chew it, and swallow. Its hard edge presses against my throat, sticking for a moment.

Head down, I walk back to my seat and kneel as I'm expected to, but I still can't pray. I wonder how many of the people are actually praying right now. And the ones who are—do they truly believe anyone is listening? Is it all Let's pretend we believe and maybe it will be true? Like the flying carpet in
Let's Pretend,
the radio show I loved when I was a kid. But I'm not a kid now. And there's no magic carpet. Or happily ever after or life after death or anything but darkness and rocks and stones and trees.

At last the Mass draws to a close and the priest reads my favorite part, the last Gospel according to St. John. I love it because it's so mysterious—you can't completely understand the Word, how it was with God and was God and was there in the beginning and without him was nothing made that has been made. The word is life and life is the light of men and it shines in the darkness.

I find myself thinking about light and darkness and how often those words are used in the Mass, as if everything is a battle between light and dark and life and death and good and evil, and I know that part is true, I believe that. And I feel a little better listening to the familiar words drift through the church like echoes from the past, going back and back and back in time, spoken once by priests who are now dust just as this priest will be and I will be and everyone sitting here will be. The dark will claim us. There's no escape.

Tuesday, June 19 10:00
A.M.

 

I
T'S
the day of the funerals. He stands at the window and watches the cars pass his house on their way to the church. At least a dozen, he thinks—no, more than that. They have their headlights on, they drive slowly. As if they can keep those girls here a little longer. Dead is dead.

But wait, who's that? He presses his face against the glass. It's his brother, wearing their father's dark suit, too long in the sleeves, too long in the legs, walking fast, head down, not looking at anyone or anything.

He wants to run after him, stop him, but that would draw too much attention. Better not. Better let him go and hope he doesn't stand up in church and confess. He wouldn't do that, couldn't. If his father hadn't taken the car to work, he'd drive after him, grab him, force him into the car, keep him from going, but he's already out of sight, heading for St. John the Divine at the top of the hill.

He should have done it without his brother. He should have known the little weasel would betray them.

His mother comes up behind him so quietly, he doesn't know she's there until she touches his arm. He jumps, startled. "What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?"

She backs away. His brother's mother, all right. Weak, stupid, never standing up to anyone. Let his father beat him half senseless when he was a kid. Never said anything for fear he'd turn on her. God, what a family he has. You think any of them would care if he was the one who was shot instead of the one who did the shooting?

"I'm sorry," she says in that whiny voice of hers. "I didn't mean to—"

"Just leave me alone." To test her, he raises his hand as if he might hit her. She raises an arm to protect herself and backs away. As if that helps when his father is in a fighting mood.

"I just wondered if you want lunch."

He shakes his head, goes to his room, and shuts the door. He pulls a record out and puts it on the turntable. Turns it up as loud as he can. Mozart's
Requiem.
He's in the mood for a requiem, especially this one. It's Mozart's last work; he died before he finished it. He wrote it for himself, thought he'd been poisoned, knew he was dying. Mozart, a genius, a prodigy, dead before his time. When people mourn, they should mourn for great men, not silly little bitches.

T
HE
funerals are today. I sit in my car near the Catholic church and watch. I can't go in there, they don't want me, they think I killed her and Cheryl. Besides, I hate Catholics. Idol worshipers, bead mumblers, mackerel snappers, thinking they're the only ones who know the truth about God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost—the biggest nonsense of all. Three Gods in one. One is enough, if you ask me.

Bobbi Jo tried to explain the Holy Ghost once. If I wasn't so sad right now I'd laugh at the memory, her forehead creased, trying to describe something she didn't understand herself. It's the spirit of God, she said, and it's in all of us, helping us do the right thing, be wise, you know? Like when you're taking a test, you pray to the Holy Ghost to help you...

Damn, she was a sweet kid.

I look across the street. The priest has come out, swinging some ball on a chain, it's smoking like something's burning inside. I don't know what it is or why he's doing it. Pagan crap. It scares me. I think Bobbi Jo's soul might be inside that ball.

I know that's crazy, but that's how I am now. Crazy. I slept last night under a bush in front of Hausner's because I didn't want Cheryl and Bobbi Jo to be alone in there. What do you think of that? Spring Grove, here I come. They've got a padded cell ready for me. And a matching straitjacket.

Jesus, here's the coffin. Is Bobbi Jo really in that box? I try to imagine her lying still, not laughing and jumping up every five minutes. She was never one to sit around. No, she always had to be doing something. She thought she was so grown up, but I used to see her playing jump rope with her little sister, those blond curls shining in the sun. That laugh—I can still hear it, a kid's laugh. Cute, she was so cute.

Now they're putting her in the hearse. Paul and Charlie are helping. They used to be my friends. We'd ride around in my car, drink some beer, smoke some cigarettes, drag race tough guys from Fullerton, hang out at Top's looking for girls. Now they hate me. Like everybody else in this town.

I see Bobbi Jo's parents on the church steps. They look bad—ashy gray, old. I can't look at them or the little sisters who look so much like Bobbi Jo. I slide down in the seat and grip the wheel and hope no one notices my car. Or me in it, bawling like a kid.