Little Bird of Heaven

  Krull was miserable to leave. Krull was hoping this would not have a bad ending. A flash came to him of Zoe’s battered face, the bruised and broken eye sockets. Krull muttered Yes ma’am!

  Mrs. Hare walked with Krull to the classroom doorway. Like a TV lady of the house showing someone to the door. The room was Marsha Hare’s homeroom—she’d decorated with glossy photos of animals, landscapes, river views. She’d decorated it with what Zoe would recognize as nice female touches—artificial sunflowers in vases, ferns and African violets in clay pots, curiously little wood carvings. Seated, Mrs. Hare had seemed nearly Krull’s height but once they were standing, you could see how short Mrs. Hare was, beside Krull; how her authority rapidly diminished. Sure O.K. thanks Mrs. Hare he’d rewrite the assignment Yes ma’am except next day in gym Krull got into a scuffle with two boys—“white” boys—pissing him off looking at him like he had a bad smell and other boys joined in, some on Krull’s side, mostly not on Krull’s side, there was a free-for-all that lasted for several clamorous minutes, and this time there were witnesses to Krull’s behavior including the gym instructor Mr. Casey whose nose was bloodied and so within the space of a few flurried hours Krull was arrested by Sparta police officers and taken to police headquarters and booked on charges of assault, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest. Never would Aaron Kruller return to Sparta High, he’d been permanently expelled. He would not graduate with his class. He would not see Marsha Hare again.

  42

  THE GIRL. Eddy Diehl’s daughter.

  Now he knew her name—Krista. Knew exactly who she was. But not why she was trailing him. A girl with pale blond ghost-hair, too young to merit a second glance from Krull.

  Still she was watching him, from a distance. Drawing back when he saw her. But not drawing back too quick.

  There was something pleading in the girl’s face. In her somber eyes. Hurt me! You can try.

  Krull had hurt her brother Ben, maybe she knew that. Maybe Ben had told her. (Though Krull had to doubt that Ben had told anyone about being so humiliated.) But Krull would never hurt a girl. Not even Eddy Diehl’s daughter.

  Nor would he come near the girl. Not ever.

  NOW THAT KRULL WAS AWARE of the girl—Krista Diehl—who was Eddy’s daughter—he realized he’d been hearing about her, from Mira Roche. How young she was, and how trusting. Kind of sweet, naive. Poor kid you felt sorry for her almost, what with her father…

  Krull didn’t ask about the father.

  …her father who’d been in trouble with the police, people said he’d moved away from Sparta.

  And there was Duncan Metz and his friends, Krista hadn’t a clue what plans they had for her.

  Mira laughed, uneasily. Seeing that Krull had lapsed into one of his moods.

  (For sure, Krull wasn’t going to get involved. Trying to put distance between himself and that crowd. You couldn’t call them friends—Krull wouldn’t have known what to call them. The girls were crazy for him—for Krull—but it wasn’t flattering, these were garbage-heads who’d do anything a guy asked, for drugs; once they were stoned, they’d do even more, until they passed out. And such good-looking girls, like Mira Roche…There was Duncan Metz who claimed to be Krull’s good friend, Krull never fully trusted. It was said of Metz admiringly that he’d been busted numerous times since he’d been sixteen but had never spent a day in any facility not even juvie. And now Metz would never be busted, he was too smart. He made too much money. He had some mysterious connection with the Herkimer County sheriff’s department, one of his cousins was a deputy, or Metz was a trusted snitch, trading information to law enforcement for special favors. Last time they’d been together Metz took his Firebird convertible to ninety miles an hour on the Interstate—ninety-five—one hundred—and beyond one hundred—and Krull in the passenger’s seat saying Slow down! Jesus but Metz high on crystal meth just laughed. Chill it Krull, I don’t make mistakes.)

  Since he’d been expelled from school Krull worked longer hours at the garage. Now it was winter, Kruller’s Auto Repair hired out for snow-removal services, and the lagging business improved substantially. Still, Delray had only two full-time mechanics now and two or three younger men who worked part-time. As Delray’s son Krull was paid haphazardly and some weeks not at all. When Delray wasn’t on the premises it was Krull who took over answering the phone, talking to customers. He was learning the skill of estimating repairs. No one hearing him on the phone Yes sir, yes ma’am would have guessed he was only seventeen. Ever more Delray entrusted him with the tow truck, late-night snow removal. The kind of work you end up doing through the night after a heavy snowfall, having put in a full day’s work beforehand in the garage. Shit-work Delray called it but it pays.

  In fact Krull liked snow-removal, especially at night. Something crazy and thrilling about it like lacrosse: you worked with other guys, you were a team, it could be dangerous work but as long as you kept going and never shut your eyes for a moment’s respite you were O.K.

  The trick was to take as much work as you could get. Just say yes, and do it. And do it well. And charge a few dollars less than your competition. That made a difference.

  There was the feeling, too, of being of use. People grateful for you turning up. Especially women, or elderly people. Damn grateful for you since without snow removed from their driveways they were trapped.

  Of use—it was a way of feeling Krull grew to like. He was thinking of Mrs. Hare, who’d been so hopeful for him. Weird how this teacher had seemed to like “Aaron Kruller” and how after he’d been expelled—months after—Krull would think of her suddenly, and miss her; Krull, who’d hated school, and had dreams about returning, knocking down walls and dealing devastation. What she’d told him—you can be a “rogue”—or you can be a “citizen.” It was a sensible distinction. Not that Krull believed in a “useful” life—useful for who?—still less did he want to be a “citizen” but he needed to help out Delray. And he didn’t want to die young.

  EACH TUESDAY MORNING AT 9 A.M. Aaron Kruller reported to the county courthouse on Union Street, Sparta. Waiting his turn at the Probation and Parole Office of the New York State Department of Corrections. After the arrest at school he’d been sentenced to three years’ probation. Delray had been so disgusted with him and beyond disgusted he’d looked sober, scared. Krull was resolved not to fuck up anymore if just for the sake of his father.

  So, the girl. Eddy Diehl’s daughter.

  An under-age girl. You could see at a glance. Real sweet, Mira Roche said. Real trusting.

  Kind of pathetic, so trusting.

  Krull had no intention of going anywhere near Krista Diehl. Whatever Mira said of her, Krull wasn’t going to give a damn. She wasn’t his problem. There was no connection between them. Still, that night after the garage closed Krull drove into the city, to the depot where the guys hung out. Where the girls were, and the little blond ghost-haired Krista. There he encountered Metz, with the girl. No choice but to intervene. Metz must’ve been high, a serious crystal high, weird flamey look to his eyes and scarcely registering who Krull was, his friend. And Krull told Metz to let the girl go—Krull said he’d drive her home. There was an exchange of words, there was a struggle. Krull would not recall clearly what happened, afterward. Except he’d been surprised, Duncan Metz had backed off from him. Fuck you take her. Fuck you both. Who gives a fuck.

  These were Metz’s exact words. Krull would’ve laughed except this was actual life, and not funny.

  So, the girl: Krista Diehl. Here was Krull with the responsibility of driving her home.

  Eddy Diehl’s daughter. The girl who’d been trailing him, at a little distance. Regarding him with somber eyes. And Krull thinking This is a test. Like from God, a test to see where I will take her. What I will do.

  Krull wasn’t a believer in God. Krull wasn’t a believer in much of anything. Still, there was something to this. Something like in the Bible.

  Put to the test to see what you will do. Being judge
d.

  Zoe hadn’t believed in God, most of the time. But Zoe was shrewd to perceive that, if you didn’t believe in God at the right time, when it really mattered, you were fucked.

  Other times, when it didn’t matter, you were O.K. But you had to be cautious not to grow careless and confuse one time with the other.

  “Stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Fall asleep now you won’t wake up.”

  Jesus! Krull saw with disgust the girl’s shimmering blond hair in clumps caked with puke.

  Her puke, it had to be. Dribbled down the front of her clothes, even on her shoes. A thrill of disgust coursed through him.

  The way Krista Diehl was breathing, quick and shallow, and her face deathly white, Krull thought she might be O.D.’ing. Krull had seen a girl start to O.D. on speedballs the previous summer, back of the depot in somebody’s van, eyeballs rolling up inside her head and her young face slack and mouth opened like a sick baby. The guy who’d been with this girl had shaken her to keep her awake, slapped her face, and so Krull shook Krista Diehl as you’d shake a rag doll, her head flopping on her shoulders. Weakly she whimpered for him to stop.

  At least, she was conscious. With Krull’s help she could stand. Suddenly gagging again, and vomiting the shit she’d been given, puking up her guts. Krull cursed not getting out of the way in time, his boots were splattered.

  “Jesus! Look at you.”

  He was disgusted, indignant. Yet had to laugh at her, this wanly pretty little blond girl, looking like a wetted bird, feathers stuck to its skull.

  It was thrilling to Krull to think, here was Ben Diehl’s sister. Here was Eddy Diehl’s daughter. Looking to him, for help.

  Krull bundled her into his car, vomit-splattered clothes and all. Krull in thrilled disgust drove along Ferry Street to Union and to Post not knowing where the hell he was going thinking Dump her at the ER! Let them empty out her guts.

  Sometimes it happened, a user O.D.’ing on drugs was dumped behind the Sparta hospital. At the curb, and the driver pulled away, fast.

  Instead, Krull took the girl to his aunt Viola’s. Shocked the hell out of his aunt seeing the limp part-conscious blond girl, so young, before even she knew the girl’s identity Viola was shocked, and disapproving, thinking this under-age girl—fifteen? fourteen?—was a girlfriend of her nephew Aaron who’d had sex with her, given her drugs and had sex with her which was equivalent to rape, a girl so young, and now it looked as if she was O.D.’ing, in a few minutes she’d be dead. Why the hell did you bring her here? Krull’s aunt asked him, and Krull said he hadn’t known what else to do. Couldn’t take her home in this condition and didn’t want to risk dumping her at the ER, if someone saw his license plate, or his face. Nor had he wanted to dump her on a street corner or in a field or in a freight car at the railroad yard which was where it looked that bastard Duncan Metz had intended to dump her. Viola asked if the girl was his girl and vehemently Krull said No she was not. He didn’t have sex with girls that young and he’d never have sex with this girl, for Christ’s sake. And Viola said, flush-faced:

  “It’s rape, Aaron. They call it ‘statue-tary’ rape. When the girl is under age and you’re not.”

  “I said, I did not have sex with her.”

  “Is there somebody else, who did?”

  Krull didn’t know. Didn’t want to think what Metz had been doing with Krista Diehl, in the depot.

  He was staring at the girl as she swayed on her feet. His aunt was holding her now, wiping at her face with a tissue. The Diehl girl who appeared to be only minimally conscious of her surroundings. Krista Diehl, here! Krull was made to think of what linked them, him and her; what the connection was between them, powerful as a blood-bond, of which neither could have spoken.

  Hurt me! You can try.

  What happened between them, then.

  No way of speaking of this either.

  After he’d told his aunt who the girl was. After she’d stared at him in disbelief. After she’d gone to make a phone call and Krull was alone with the girl, in his aunt’s bathroom. Krull turned on both faucets and the girl was trying to wash her face, swaying against the sink, light-headed, clumsy.

  He had not wanted to touch her further. He’d given her a washcloth, she fumbled in her fingers. And suddenly his hands were closing around her neck. He was standing close behind her, at the sink. Couldn’t seem to control his hands, closing around the girl’s slender neck. And feeling her immediate fear, her panic, in that instant, he was hard. Blood in his penis, hard as a hammer. His brain was close to extinction, annihilation.

  Taunting her: “This how he did it? Your father…”

  How Eddy Diehl had strangled Zoe, in her bed. Except Krull seemed to recall there’d been a towel twisted around his mother’s neck. But maybe Eddy Diehl had strangled her before using the towel. Maybe there had been the marks of a man’s fingers, shadow-fingers on the discolored skin.

  Krull hadn’t seen his mother’s throat but he’d seen her face. Always at all times shutting his eyes Krull sees his dead mother’s face. A swollen face like a bruised and broken melon, sallow skin, bloodied skin, broken cheekbones and broken eye sockets and the opened eyes, like grapes. And in the eyes the burst capillaries, the pressure of strangulation.

  Krull had seen his mother dead, and he’d smelled her. Krull’s beautiful mother except not beautiful now. This was Zoe’s reward. This was Zoe’s punishment. Got what she deserved for Christ’s sake. That poor woman it was said. Krull had heard such utterances, or had almost heard them. A terrible choking rage rose in Krull, to punish.

  “…this? Like this? This…”

  He was pressing against her, his weight against her back. He was squeezing her throat. Weakly the girl picked at his fingers but lacked the strength to free herself. Not daring to claw frantically at him as another girl might out of a fear of provoking him to greater anger. For maybe—the terrified girl might be reasoning—Krull was just teasing, wasn’t really serious as—maybe—Duncan Metz had not been serious and had not intended to rape her and let her die of a drug overdose in a freight car; maybe in another moment Krull would loosen his grip on her throat, and laugh at her. Laugh at her terror. Reveal this as a joke.

  Guys did such things. Took you to the edge. Showed you what was beyond the edge. And if you believed, a guy would laugh at you, scorn you. He’d tell his friends and they would laugh at you, too.

  But you couldn’t know. Sometimes you couldn’t know until it was too late.

  Mira Roche had told Krista this. And Bernadette. Krista’s friends!

  The fact was, Krull had not been alone with Krista. Close by in the apartment his aunt Viola had been on the telephone. If he’d been alone with Krista, if he’d brought her out to the farmhouse on Quarry Road, something different might have happened. But Krull’s aunt was in the apartment, and Krull only just rubbed hard against the girl, through her clothes. And through his clothes, he had not unzipped his trousers. He had not taken out his cock, to force against her. Hadn’t pulled down her jeans, to force his cock into her. The crack of her tender little ass. He’d have torn her badly, he’d have caused her to bleed but this had not happened, for Krull’s aunt was close by. Within several swift seconds he came, and came hard. He came nearly fainting. He would think She doesn’t know. Neither of them will know.

  Abruptly then it was over. His fingers released her, he lifted his weight from her. Half-fainting and his knees near-buckling yet telling himself Nothing happened. Didn’t touch her.

  In a choked voice he spoke: “Hey. Nobody hurt you. C’mon, breathe.”

  He laughed. He prodded her. He would behave as if nothing had happened between them. The girl half-lay slumped over the stained sink, gasping for breath. Krull hoped to hell he hadn’t wetted her clothes—but there was water in the sink, water issuing from the faucets, she’d been trying to wash her face. Must’ve weighed no more than eighty-five pounds in his hands. A cold sweat came over Krull, he could’ve broken her spine forcing himself
against her, could’ve broken her neck losing control as he had, the sex-hunger was so strong, unstoppable.

  By the time Viola returned it was over. Krull wanted to think it was over, he’d stepped back from the girl, adjusted his sweaty clothing. And there came Viola agitated and fussy like one who has made a difficult decision: “Let me. I’ll wash her face. For Christ’s sake! Here’s puke in her hair.”

  It was Viola’s idea to have Krista telephone her mother, when she was recovered enough to speak coherently. Explain that she was at a friend’s house in Sparta. She’d stayed late at school, there had been a—what?—a meeting of the yearbook, or some sport practice—basketball? Krista would explain how she’d tried to call home earlier but could not get through. Or could not find a phone. Maybe the phone service had been out. Explain she’d had supper with her friend. And her friend’s mother was going to drive her home now.

  Viola had wanted to drive Krista Diehl home, in fact. But Krull insisted. Krull had begun this, and Krull would end this. Took a beer from Viola’s refrigerator to drink while driving the girl out to the river road where he knew the Diehls lived. Scarcely a word passed between them. By now Krull was forgetting how he’d near-strangled the girl, how he’d rammed himself against her oblivious of how he might be hurting her, he would forget how he’d come, and how hard he’d come, weak-kneed, whimpering, he would come to think that probably this had not happened. None of this had happened. Or it had happened in some different, alternative way. Possibly he’d wanted it to happen, but his aunt had appeared. His aunt had appeared in the doorway of the bathroom and so he’d stopped. Whatever the hell Krull was doing, crude-pig-Krull humping the girl he’d brought home to save from O.D.’ing, that had not happened. His aunt would be a witness, it hadn’t happened. No sex-assault. No statue-tary Rape. Not Krull. Not Krull who was too shrewd, and too cautious.