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.
Tiffany has been my enemy ever since I arrived at Harmony House. We were going downstairs for dinner one evening and I suddenly found myself falling, thrown off balance, clutching frantically at the banister, feeling awkward and stupid. I thought my foot had somehow become entangled with Tiffany’s, until she said, “Sorry,” and continued on her way with a wicked smile at me over her shoulder.
Chantelle, who’d been standing down below, took me aside after dinner that evening. “Watch out for Tiffany,” she said. “She’s jealous, thinks Miss Kentall likes you better. Miss Kentall gives her the run of the place. So be careful.…”
One afternoon, I opened my backpack in the weeping willow tree and instead of sandwiches found garbage wrapped up in wax paper and a note that said, You’re not wanted at Harmony House. When I got back from Webster Avenue, I slipped into Miss Kentall’s office and checked the black leather register I signed the night I arrived. Tiffany’s signature was there and her handwriting matched the writing on the note.
I was determined to keep living here at Harmony House as long as possible and not let Tiffany drive me away. I enjoyed living here. Nobody gets drunk and nobody gets battered. The day my picture appeared in the newspaper, Chantelle and Debbie and Miss Kentall started clapping when I walked into the dining room, and even Tiffany joined in. Chantelle pinned my picture on the bulletin board in the hallway. “Prettiest girl we ever had in this place,” I overheard her saying to Miss Kentall.
But I have to leave before I get into big trouble. Tonight when I returned to my room after watching reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show, I noticed that my bedspread had been rearranged, as if someone had taken it off and put it back on again. Was Tiffany still searching my room, looking for something to steal? I pulled back the bedspread, blanket, and sheet, and found Miss Kentall’s black leather register between the mattress and the box spring. As I flipped through the pages, three twenty-dollar bills fell out, fluttering to the floor. I knew immediately what this was all about. The register and the money would be found missing tomorrow, and a search of the house would follow. They’d be found in my room and I’d be accused of theft. Tiffany’s final touch.
I waited for everyone to be in their rooms and stole down the stairs to Miss Kentall’s office. I replaced the register in the drawer, relieved to find the door unlocked. Then I returned and began to toss my belongings into my backpack.
Now I check the digital clock which tells me that it’s 1:23 A.M.
I take the change from my pocket and count it. Seventy-eight cents. How far will nine dollars and seventy-eight cents take me?
Thinking of the missing wallet, I realize that poor Walter Clayton will have to get a new driver’s license and new credit cards. Maybe he’s already done that. But the pictures of his daughter, Karen, and his son, Kevin, are gone forever. I vow to write him a letter someday and apologize.
I blink: there are tears in my eyes.
I get mad at myself.
Stop with the self-pity.
My mother always says, “As long as you’ve got your health and a new day is coming tomorrow, be thankful.” Even if she had a black eye.
I have no black eye.
I have almost ten dollars in my pocket.
I have my fixation on Eric Poole.
And the rain has almost stopped.
Putting on my backpack, I whisper goodbye to the room and I am ready to go.
I will slip out of the house and make my way to Webster Avenue and say a silent goodnight to Eric Poole. Who knows? Maybe he will still be awake and look out the window and see me and invite me in.
Who knows what wonderful things might be waiting for me?
Jake Proctor received the call at six-thirty-five in the morning.
He had been up half the night, coughing, a summertime cold that he could not shake, lingering for the past two weeks, low-grade fever and coughing spells that left him shaken and weary. Air-conditioning made it worse, as he went in and out of stores, from chilled places to the outside heat and then into the car, turning on the air-conditioning, producing more coughs and chills.
He stopped going to headquarters for a while, did not want to spread his cold around and, besides, the air-conditioning in the new building was always set on high, arctic breezes stirring the air.
Jimmy Pickett kept in touch every day, reporting from the surveillance vehicle. Surveillance in this case was minimal, because electronic sweeping of the Barns house had been denied. The chief allowed limited use of the vehicle on adjacent streets, mostly to dislodge plainclothes officers to the scene. A useless detail, the lieutenant knew, but a bit of activity to mark time until the monster made his move. Which was sure to come, although the chief and the district attorney disagreed.
“Indulge me,” Lieutenant Proctor had said.
“Okay,” the chief replied, rewarding him for all those years on the job.
Pickett’s voice had been excited when the picture of the girl, Miss Anonymous, appeared in the newspaper. Especially that cryptic once. Which meant she had met Eric Poole.
“Think we can use her?” Pickett asked.
The lieutenant contemplated the question.
“Find out more about her.”
Later that day, Pickett reported that she was living at a home for pregnant girls. “But, get this, not pregnant. A runaway from New Hampshire. Fifteen years old. We could move in. Use her—”
“Let her be,” said the old cop. “She’s underage. Let’s not place her in jeopardy. We’ll follow the original design—”
A coughing spell obliterated Pickett’s sigh of disappointment.
At last, the call came at six-thirty-five in the morning, bringing him sluggishly out of sleep. He heard the banging of waste barrels in the street as the rubbish collectors did their job.
“Pickett here. I know it’s early.” Apology in his voice. “Sorry, Lou.”
He responded with his usual morning ritual: coughing, clearing his throat, reaching for Kleenex.
“Go ahead,” he croaked finally.
“He’s on his way. Left his aunt’s house twelve minutes ago—”
“Heading where?”
“West on Route Two, just like you said.”
Paused, sighing. “We still wait, right, Lieutenant?”
“Right,” the old cop said, coughing.
Waiting had become a way of life.
Now in the driver’s seat of his minivan, the wheel in his hand, his foot ready to accelerate, he knew his first full sense of freedom since his release from the facility. The windshield clear of dust, the after-rain breeze cool on his face, the motor purring beautifully under the hood, he steered out onto the street and headed toward state Route 2.
Away we go.
He remained cautious, however, a part of him that could never relax, had to remain on guard, alert. He glanced into the rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. He checked out cars that pulled into the street behind him as he passed.
He was on the lookout for an old beat-up car driving behind him at a discreet distance. As ridiculous as it sounded, he thought that old Lieutenant Proctor would be driving a car as ancient as himself, dusty and used up. Told himself to shrug off that possibility but kept looking, anyway.