Tenderness (12 page)

He had just finished with Alicia Hunt. Had laid her down in a thicket near the tracks, waiting for the proper moment to dispose of her body. He
had pushed his way through the brush to make certain that he was alone. That’s when he encountered the girl, balancing on the rail, looking directly at him, watchfulness in her eyes, as if she had been waiting for him to appear.

How long had she been standing there?

How much had she seen?

She had smiled, a smile impossible to decipher. He remembered talking to her, trying to draw her out. What had they talked about? Something about her birthday. She was twelve years old—no wonder he had not immediately recognized her across the street or in the photograph. He recalled now how his heart accelerated as they talked. Two in one day. Two within a few minutes of each other. Almost too beautiful to resist, despite the risks. But—how could he dispose of two of them? He had plans for Alicia Hunt but not for this unexpected girl. A child, really. Excitement flooded him, however, at the thought of sharing tenderness with a child.

Before he could make a decision, the motorcycle gang roared into view, kicking up dust and dirt, fracturing the intimacy of the moment. One of the cyclists grabbed at the girl, and Eric shouted at him, surprising himself by coming to the girl’s defense, made bold by the knowledge of the power he held over life and death. When the bikers had gone, he said goodbye, a bit sadly and
reluctantly, to the girl, and sent her on her way, the job of disposing of Alicia Hunt waiting for him in the woods.

But:
Once
.

She had now come out of the past like a ghost. He did not believe in ghosts but he believed that this girl represented a threat.

His old refrain beat through his mind:
I’ve got to get out of here
.

But he needed the license first.

It all happened the next day.

He awoke to rain drumming against the windowpane, ending the heat wave, although the heat had become so much a part of his existence that it had ceased to bother him.

Looking out the bedroom window at the rain lashing the picket fence and the wind stirring tree branches, he felt a rising of his spirits. The rain would keep the last of the spectators, the diehards, like the girl, away from the street.

His spirits soared when he checked the mail at mid-morning and found a letter from the Registry of Motor Vehicles. Finally. He opened it carefully, as if there’d be a penalty if he was careless with the envelope.

The time for his driver’s test: two days from now, ten o’clock in the morning. Aunt Phoebe
had promised to take time off to drive him to the registry and accompany him on the test. They’d carry out their usual acts of deception, although there’d be no need if the rain continued.

He held the notification in his hands, gazing at it lovingly, as if it were a passport to exotic places.

I have to leave Harmony House.

The sound of rain is like small pebbles thrown against the window as I put my stuff into my backpack. I am trying not to make any noise, even though it’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m sure everyone’s asleep and the rain disguises my movements.

Although they know I’m not pregnant, Chantelle and Debbie have been very nice to me, and Tiffany pretends to be nice. Chantelle says she was relieved to find out that I am not with child—she never uses the word
pregnant
but always
with child
—anyway, she says I look too young and innocent, although she admits that my body isn’t exactly a child’s.

Miss Kentall has let me carry out my duties at my own pace and gave me enough time off to let me visit Webster Avenue, where Eric Poole is living with his aunt. She showed me how she wanted the beds made, crisp and tight, the proper use of the vacuum cleaner (as if I had never seen one
before) and how much soap and bleach to use in the washing machine.

I have tried to call my mother twice, as Miss Kentall stood beside me, but there was no answer. “Send her a postcard,” Miss Kentall suggested. That’s what I did. I wrote down that I was having a good time staying with Martha and George and hoped she and Gary were fine and that I would be in touch soon. I signed it,
Lots of love
, with
x
’s and
o
’s.

After my chores were finished in the morning, I was free until dinnertime, when I helped Mrs. Hornsby in the kitchen. The rest of the time I spent on Webster Avenue. I’d take my backpack, which contained two Oreos, a can of Classic Coke, and ham sandwiches that Mrs. Hornsby prepared for me.

On my first visit to Webster Avenue, I noticed a big weeping willow tree across the street from Eric’s aunt’s house, which I recognized from television. The tree is so big and old that the branches reach down to the lawn like a giant green mushroom. The size of the crowd surprised me. Television vans. Newscasters and reporters were talking into microphones and cameras. Teenagers paraded on the sidewalk, holding up signs saying
WE LUV U
,
ERIC
, while others carried no signs but their faces were grim as they began pushing and shoving the
sign carriers. A man in an Indiana Jones kind of hat called for everybody to be quiet for the noontime news and the crowd fell silent, pulling back, as if part of a scene in a movie or on television, which is exactly what we were. A car filled with more teenagers roared down the street, and a cop stepped out and halted the car as if the street were not public anymore but belonged to the newspeople.

The sun beat fiercely down, dizzyingly, and my head began to feel weightless. Nobody paid any attention to me, so I pushed aside the branches and stepped inside the weeping willow tree, like entering a cool cave in another world. The sounds of the street became mute and far away. After a while, I pulled aside the drooping strands and peered outside.

Eric’s aunt’s house is an ordinary cottage with white curtains and dark green shutters against the white exterior gleaming in the sunlight. I saw no car in the driveway. My eyes searched the windows, hoping that he might be looking out, but of course he wasn’t. Eric Poole was probably reading a book, waiting patiently for everyone to go away. I thought how strange it was that he had been a prisoner in a kind of jail for three years and how he is still a prisoner and not free at all, although he has served his sentence.

My hiding place in the tree became hot and
stuffy after a while, and I stepped out to see the television vans driving away. People also began to disperse, and only a few stragglers remained. I stood apart from the others, concentrating on the house, hoping that he would look out at this particular minute and spot me across the street and remember me from that day on the railroad tracks, even though it was almost four years ago and I was just a kid. Yet, except for my body developing, I am not much different. My face is the same and my hair is still blond and as long as it used to be.

A young reporter, notebook in hand, showed up and began interviewing people, jotting down their comments, the tip of his tongue visible in the corner of his mouth. I stayed out of his way and did not make eye contact with him.

My other visits brought on lonesome feelings as I stood among the media people and the teenagers and senior citizens, both young and old, with time to kill, the kids on vacation from school and the old people probably glad to get away from their television sets for a change. Eric’s house always stood silent, with no signs of life, and I wondered if Eric Poole was really inside or off somewhere, laughing at us when he watches the news on television or reads the
Wickburg Telegram
.

The other day I spotted the young reporter getting out of a car and I stepped inside the weeping willow. I waited awhile and then spread the
branches apart looking out. Narrowing my eyes in concentration, I saw a movement at the second-floor window, a flash of light or a reflection, and my breath fluttered in my chest. I spread the willow branches wider and focused on the window, as if I could send my thoughts through the hot afternoon air—
it’s me, Lori, who you saw near the railroad tracks
—and the lace curtain moved a bit as if disturbed by a small breeze or a hand that had touched it. A sweet shiver went through my bones, and I stepped out of the tree and raised my head, offering my face to him, ignoring the other people on the sidewalk. Did the curtain in the window move again or was this my imagination, my longing for it to happen making my eyes deceive me?

“You’re here again.”

The voice startled me, and I turned to confront the young reporter.

“My name is Ross Packer,” he said. “I’m with the
Wickburg Telegram
, doing a feature on the Eric Poole story.” He held up his notebook as if offering some kind of proof. A camera dangled on his chest. He is a few years older than I am, freckles across his nose and cheeks and a wisp of a mustache that he’s probably growing to make himself look older. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Glancing back at the house, I wondered if Eric
was watching me, thinking that I was betraying him to this reporter.

“What’s your name?” he asked, getting ready to write in his notebook.

I shook my head.

“I prefer to remain anonymous,” I said, proud of coming up with that particular answer. “I also prefer not to answer any questions.”
Prefer
, a word with a lot of class.

“I won’t quote you,” he said, slipping the notebook into his jacket pocket. “But I would like to find out why you come here every day.”

He kept asking questions, like: Do you live in Wickburg? How old are you? Where do you go to school? Stuff like that. I didn’t answer. Only smiled. His eyes kept moving over me, and I knew that he was not interested in my answers after all.

Finally: “You’re beautiful. Know that?”

Getting to the point.

“Mind if I take your picture?”

My first instinct was to say no, but I realized that maybe this was what I needed. To be noticed, to set myself apart from the other people on the sidewalk. Maybe if Eric saw my picture in the paper, he would remember that day at the railroad tracks.

“Okay,” I said. “My picture. But not my name.”

“Miss Anonymous,” he said, posing me before the weeping willow and adjusting his camera. He did not ask me to smile but started shooting away, murmuring, “Good” and “Beautiful” and “Just one more.” I was aware of people looking at me but I kept my eyes on the camera.

“Have you ever met Eric Poole?”

He asked the question so casually as the camera clicked that I said, “Once.” Before realizing I had answered.

“When was that?” he asked.

He must have seen the anger in my eyes.

“I really am sorry,” he said. “But I have to get a story. My job depends on it. Eric Poole is a mysterious guy and I’m trying to fill in the blank spaces.”

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” I said. “He’s paid his debt to society.” Repeating a phrase I heard on the radio.

Ross Packer beckoned me away from the others, and we strolled down the street. Speaking confidentially, tilting his head toward me, he said, “There are rumors. That he maybe killed other people. Two young girls …”

I thought of Eric Poole and that shy smile and the way he protected me from those bikers.

“That’s crazy.”

“Maybe. Actually, there’s no proof at all. Only
suspicions. That’s why they’re keeping him under surveillance.…”

Glancing up the street, I saw only the usual observers, teenagers and old people. Even the media vans and cars were gone for the moment.

“Are you making all this up?” I ask, thinking he was only trying to impress me.

“Come with me,” he said. I followed him, curious about what he might know about Eric.

At the corner of Webster Avenue and Adams Street, he said, “Don’t look now, but there’s a brown van down the street. Nondescript, beat-up looking. A surveillance van, the cops. They keep changing their location but keep tabs on him.”

As we turned back toward Eric’s house, I glanced quickly down the street and saw the van, ugly in color and appearance.

“I don’t believe Eric Poole killed any girls,” I said.

“He killed his mother and stepfather. Once a killer, always a killer.” Then, looking at me: “At least, that’s what some people say.” A kind of apology in his voice.

“He was a victim of child abuse,” I said. “That’s why he did it.”

Ross Packer shrugged. “I’ve got to get back to the paper. Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I said. But knowing that I would be
back, all right, because my fixation was still strong inside me.

But now I am leaving Harmony House and maybe Wickburg and maybe going back home and giving up my fixation. First of all, most of my money is gone. I returned from Webster Avenue two days ago to find that Walter Clayton’s wallet was missing. I only keep a few dollars with me when I go out, and I’d left the wallet in the drawer of the night table. My door had been locked. But it has an old-fashioned keyhole that requires a simple key. I decided not to say anything about the theft because I didn’t want to cause trouble and make accusations that would probably backfire on me, although I was sure that Tiffany had stolen the wallet.