I close my diary and put it back in my underwear drawer. I wonder if the police have learned anything from Cheryl's and Bobbi Jo's diaries.
Cheryl's Diary
Saturday, December 31, 1955
New year's eve, Party at Paul's house. I'm going with Buddy. I think he's giving me his ring tonight, that's what everyone says, I hope he is. He's so cute and I really really like him a lot, maybe even love him, not quite sure yet, there was this boy last summer in Ocean City, he was a sailor actually and he was twenty years old so maybe he wasn't actually a boy anymore but how could I say he was my man friend, he was my boyfriend for two weeks, I met him on the boardwalk and he shot these plastic ducks at the rifle range and won a kewpie doll for me which is standing on my bureau this very minute. Its just so cute with its big round eyes and its little curl on its forehead. The sailor's name was Mike and let's face it he was cuter than Buddy and taller and a better kisser, especially French. but he's somewhere out on the ocean now and he stopped writing to me before Thanksgiving so it was just a summer love, like that song the autumn leaves by roger williams. but Buddy's right here in Elmgrove, just a few blocks away and he says he loves me and he gave me a christmas present, a pretty china horse for my collection, the prettiest and the biggest one of all. It's standing next to the kewpie doll. if her legs were separate instead of stuck together she could ride him.
It's almost time to go, I'm walking to Paul's house with Bobbi Jo and Ellie and her friend Nora, this girl who lives in the old part of town, I don't know her real good yet, she seems nice but kind of silly, laughs a lot, kind of immature if you ask me but who's asking, Ellie likes her and so does Charlie even though she's taller than him.
My folks aren't real keen about Buddy. they think he's too much of a cat—his ducktail and his pegged pants and his shirt collar turned up, but what do they know.
I'm wearing this full blue velvet skirt I got for Christmas and a see through blouse I bought with babysitting money which is hidden under a sweater because even though everybody wears them I know my father would make me change it for something else he's such an old stick in the mud. I also have my pop-it bead necklace that looks like pearls and my pearl earrings, I bought both at the dime store and they look like they cost lots more.
oops there's the doorbell—I'll tell ya what happens tonight tomorrow!
Bobbi Jo's Diary
Sunday, January 1 New Years Day!!!!! Happy 1956, the best year ever!
Last night was the first new years eve I didn't sit at home with my family watching TV in the living room and waiting for the ball to fall at Times Square. I'd love to see that in real life someday, be in that huge crowd, shouting happy new years to strangers, maybe even kissing them. When I'm eighteen, cheryl and Ellie and nora and me are riding the bus up there, we promised each other last night.
The party was at Paul's house, this guy in cheryl and Ellie's class. He drives a blue plymouth, sort of souped up but not as much as buddy's ford, but I'll say more about buddy later.
Anyway I wore my best red corduroy skirt, it's real straight and has a slit up the back so I think it makes me look older, and a brand new white Orlon sweater I got for Christmas, it's just like cashmere but not as expensive. I tied a new red silk scarf around my neck and borrowed mom's gold clip on earrings. She said I looked beautiful but not to grow up too fast because she wasn't ready for that and daddy said before we know she'll be married and have babies of her own and I said I'm just fourteen don't be so silly.
It will be only neat to get married and have a baby and I hope I'll be a good wife and mother. If things go the way I want I'll get married in june 1960, right after I graduate from Our Lady of Mercy. Ellie wants to go to college but me and cheryl want to get married and start our real life. Cheryl hates school and so do I.
It was cold outside and Ellie said maybe the lake would freeze and we could ice skate, she's from massachusetts where you can skate outdoors practically all winter. I don't have skates we don't often need them here.
lots of kids came to Paul's party. a guy from St. john's was there but he wasn't wearing his uniform too bad those boys look so cute in their uniforms. Paul turned the lights low and gary brought his records, he has thousands, I swear. He's fat but nice so he never dances, just plays records which is nice of him I think, he's kind of cute like that kewpie doll cheryl has, the one the sailor won for her at the shooting gallery. He shot twelve plastic ducks to get it. Bang bang bang, dead duck ha ha.
Anyway I danced every dance, some with Paul, some with Charlie some with Walt and one with Steven from St. John's who held me way too tight while Unchained Melody was playing and tried to feel my breasts which he should know is a sin. So that was the last dance I danced with him.
Buddy and Cheryl danced so close you couldn't put a piece of paper between them. She's not Catholic so maybe it's all right but Sister would kill any girl who danced like that. Well. not kill. Just punish. Kneel and say seven Hail Marys and one act of contrition she'd say and go to confession on saturday. Sister doesn't let you get away with anything. which is why I beg my parents to let me go to public school.
Cheryl wore her new see-through blouse. All you can see is her lacy slip underneath but sister would make her say a few prayers for that, too. good thing she goes to Eastern. No matter what sister would say, cheryl looked really pretty. she has the prettiest hair, like the breck shampoo girl or grace kelly, long and blond with a perfect roll under. i might grow mine long and wear it like hers but I think it's too curly. tough break.
After a while me and Ellie and nora noticed Cheryl and Buddy were gone. I started looking for them but Steven said, forget it, kid, they're outside in Buddy's car. some girls know how to have fun.
Well, I should of guessed that. when I saw them again Cheryl was all rosy and happy and she was wearing Buddy's class ring on a chain around her neck.
Somebody yelled happy new year and the lights went out and everybody started kissing and hugging.
Then the lights went on and there was Paul's mother holding a big tray of sandwiches and his father had a case of sodas and soon we were all eating and then the party was over, my very first new years eve party. We walked home through the cold night, laughing and talking, me and Ellie and nora. Cheryl had disappeared again with Buddy.
That girl better be careful or she'll be getting married shotgun style. I just found out what that means.
It's a sin to lose your virginity before you get married, I know that, but if you get married before the baby's born then are you forgiven? say 5 Hail Marys, get married, and everything's okay, you won't go to hell, but you'll probably end up in purgatory for a long time.
But I can't help wondering what it's like to be a girl who knows how to have fun. By the time I'm Cheryl's age, I bet I'll know.
A Visit to the Priest
Friday, July 6
Nora
FOR days after Ellie goes to Boston, I mope around the house. I can't stop thinking about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo and how God, if there is a God, let it happen. I try to pray but I can't. The feelings I had at the funeral come back, even stronger. I'm scared I'm becoming an atheist, which means I'll burn in hell. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind. Which is worse, I wonder, atheism or insanity?
My parents take Billy and me to Druid Hill Park for the Fourth of July fireworks. I want to stay home and read Peyton Place, a book I have to hide or Mom will take it back to the library. But Mom says I have to get out of the house.
Why? Where is there to go? What is there to do? All my friends are gone.
While Billy runs around with some of his friends being totally obnoxious, I sit on the blanket and think about last year. We'd come with Buddy and Cheryl, crammed in the back seat of his old car, me sitting on Charlie's lap, Ellie sitting on Paul's lap, and Bobbi Jo and Walt squeezed in between us. Before the fireworks started, we were laughing and joking and talking so loud that some crabby old people on the blanket next to us told us to keep it down. We laughed and laughe
d and Cheryl gave them the finger. Later when it got dark and the fireworks started, Buddy and Cheryl lay down on the blanket and made out. It was kind of embarrassing. I don't think they saw a single thing except maybe the grand finale, which is hard to ignore.
This year I'm the one who doesn't watch the rockets shoot up into the sky and explode in bursts of red and blue and fall like petals from the sky. I lie on my back with my eyes closed and drift into the past.
Mom notices I'm not enjoying the fireworks. The next day, she asks me if I've thought about her suggestion to talk to a priest.
"Yes," I say, "I've thought about it."
She looks at me, waiting for me to say more. "Well?" she finally asks.
I yawn. "I will."
"When?"
"Stop nagging me. I said I will, so leave me alone." I go to my room and slam my door and pick up Peyton Place, but I can't keep my mind on it. Mom is disgusted with me, I'm not acting like myself. Like the self she thinks I am, I mean. Like the self that isn't here anymore.
I can't talk to the priests at St. John the Divine's. Father Bailey baptized me. Father Cahill heard my first confession and gave me my First Communion. How can I tell either of them I'm not sure I believe in God? It would hurt their feelings. You know, after all they did to help me be a good Catholic.
I decide to take the streetcar to Baltimore and go to St. Alphonsus, this big beautiful church where my grandparents got married a long, long time ago. Grandmother was christened there, too. She wouldn't marry my grandfather until he converted. Mom tried that with Dad, but he wouldn't convert and she married him anyway. Big mistake. Only I wouldn't be here if she hadn't. Funny how easy it is not to have been born.
I know where to get off the streetcar because I've gone there with Mom. She likes to attend Mass at St. Alphonsus on All Souls' Day and light candles for her parents. Afterward, we have lunch at Miller's, her favorite Baltimore restaurant, just Mom and me.
The priests at St. Alphonsus will explain things to me. I'll understand why bad things happen. I'll believe again like I did before, before ... well, you know, before the awful thing.
I get off at Howard Street. The sidewalks are busy with shoppers coming and going from Hutzler's department store. We always go there to visit Santa Claus and see the Christmas windows. Of course, I don't see Santa anymore. That's gone with everything else from my childhood including thinking I'm safe in Elmgrove. Even Billy's too old for Santa, but we still love the windows. Each one has a different scene from "The Night Before Christmas." The figures move around on little tracks.
I pause at one of the windows. Last December, I stood on this exact spot with Ellie, Cheryl, and Bobbi Jo. We'd come to Hutzler's to do our Christmas shopping. It was a cold, windy day. Cheryl's long hair blew in her face and I wished I'd worn a warmer coat. But Hutzler's was warm inside and crowded and decked out with all sorts of Christmas decorations. It was so beautiful, a winter wonderland, magical, shiny and sparkly. We all bought socks for our dads and scarves for our mothers. Cheryl and I bought cap pistols for our little brothers and Bobbi Jo bought a rubber duck and a coloring book for her little sisters.
The hardest present to choose was Buddy's. It took Cheryl forever to make up her mind. Shirts and sweaters were too expensive. He didn't like to read, so books were out. We ended up going to the record department, where Cheryl bought him five forty-fives, "Midnight Special," "Night Train," "Maybelline," "I Hear Ya Knockin'," and "C. C. Rider." Funny, I still remember the ones she picked. Maybe because we listened to them in a little booth before she bought them. We all squeezed in and got to giggling and the manager told us to leave and Cheryl said, "Humph, maybe I won't buy anything here," but we all groaned and said please just buy the records and let's go get milk shakes. So she did, but she made the guy wait while she counted out all the change she had.
Now I stand here alone. It's a hot July day. Mannequins in summer clothes pose in the windows. They're wearing those long plaid shorts called Bermudas, the new fashion trend, Seventeen magazine says. They look awful, I think, but I've seen lots of college girls wearing them. Not me, though. I like short shorts.
I study my reflection in the window as if I'm hoping to see somebody different. A pretty girl, the kind boys like. But it's the same old me. Tall and skinny, short frizzy hair, sleeveless blue dress with a little white lace collar.
Not stylish. Not pretty. Afraid of everything. Hell. Death. Especially death. But also sex. Sometimes I think I'm frigid. Other times, like at the reservoir with Charlie, I worry I'm a nymphomaniac. Maybe I've read too many True Confessions magazines where the women are always either one or the other.
I turn away from my reflection, dodging women carrying shopping bags, and keep walking toward Saratoga Street. When I'm in sight of St. Alphonsus, I almost chicken out. Maybe I should go back to Hutzler's and get a chocolate milk shake at the soda fountain. I turn away from the church, take a step, hesitate. I didn't come all the way to Baltimore for a milk shake.
With a deep breath, I open the door and let out the smell of church—musty air, stale incense, dead flowers, candle wax, holy water (which has a smell I can't put into words). At least it's cool and quiet. If nothing else, I'll light two candles and pray for Bobbi Jo's and Cheryl's souls.
But if there's no God, what's the point of that?
My brain spins with doubt and fear, but I force myself to dip my finger into holy water, cross myself, and genuflect. At the altar, I light two candles in a rack at Mary's pale feet and kneel, cross myself, and pray as if I believe. As if God is listening.
Please let them be in heaven with you, let them be happy there, help me to understand why you took them, help me to believe in you.
I cross myself again. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen. The gestures and the words are so familiar. Why don't they comfort me?
Before I go into the confession booth, I sit in a pew and think about what I'll tell the priest. I can't say I knew the murdered girls, they were friends of mine, I was there when their bodies were found. I'd sound like I was bragging or trying to be famous at their expense. I'm the girl who was THERE. I'm the girl who KNEW the murdered girls.
I look at Jesus hanging on the cross surrounded by angels and saints, all looking up to heaven, not one of them is looking at his twisted body, the crown of thorns pressing blood from his forehead, his side bleeding from the soldier's sword, his hands and feet bleeding from the nails hammered into him. Everywhere I look I see statues and ornate woodwork. The church is like a wedding cake two stories high—no cake, though, just icing over emptiness.
One confessional is open. I push aside the heavy curtain and step inside. As I kneel in darkness, I hear the little panel between the priest and me slide open, I see the shadowy shape of his head.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned most grievously in thought, word and deed," I begin, repeating words I memorized when I was seven for my First Communion. Seven years old and a sinner already in the eyes of the nuns. "It's been three months since my last confession."
I stop and the priest whispers, "Yes?"
To delay, I tell him about making out with Charlie.
"How often did you kiss him?" he asks.
The question surprises me. I want to ask him if I was supposed to count, but all I say is "I don't know."
We go on—was it once, six times, more? "Did you let him touch you? Did you do anything you wouldn't have done if the Virgin Mary had been sitting in the back seat, watching you?"
The image of the Virgin Mary in the back seat almost makes me laugh.
Finally I whisper, "I need to ask you something, Father, but it's hard. I don't know what to say, I haven't told anyone because they won't understand, they'll be shocked, but I thought maybe you could give me some advice, tell me what to do, how to..." Tripping and stumbling over words, I come to a stop and wait, sure he's guessed what I'm trying to say.
"You must tell your parents first," the priest says. "They'll be disapp
ointed, of course, maybe even angry, but they'll help you."
"I tried to tell my mother, but she doesn't really understand."
"How about the boy, then?"
I'm puzzled. Does he mean Buddy? "He says he didn't do it."
"Have there been others?"
What does he mean—others? "No," I say, "not that I know of."
"Then it must be him." The priest is silent for a moment, thinking, I guess. "Will he do the right thing?" he asks at last.
I'd like to ask the priest what he means by the right thing, but I don't want him to think I'm stupid. "I don't know, Father," I whisper.
"Surely you've discussed it."
"I don't know him well enough to talk to him about the, the..."
When I can't finish the sentence, the priest says, "You must ask him what his intentions are."
"His intentions?" Totally confused, I stare at the outline of the priest's head through the mesh covering the window.
"Yes, his intentions." The priest is beginning to sound cross. "You have been a foolish girl, you have sinned against God and the holy Catholic Church, you have given up your treasure to an unworthy boy. Now you must either marry him or enter a home for unwed mothers."