by Mindy Mejia
“Here, Tommy, write him a quick note. He’ll be glad to hear from you,” Mom said.
Tommy seemed flustered by the pen and sticky note, but he squeezed himself into a kitchen chair and did as she told him. I grabbed a few sodas for us out of the fridge before we went upstairs, and as I passed the table I saw he wrote (all in uppercase): HI GREG. YOU KILLED OSAMA YET? GO SPARTANS! TOMMY
“So do you wanna go for a drive?” Tommy asked when we got to my room. He looked like a monster on my little twin bed and I couldn’t help remembering what Portia had said. It was the kind of thought that just creeped in all by itself and started whispering, rapist, rapist. I wondered what Tommy was really capable of with his strong hands and soft brain. There was that whole Lennie Small angle to consider. Even though the gearshift stayed between us every time we made out in his pickup, he still tried to move his hand down my shirt to my jeans. And every time I pulled away and said, “No, Tommy.” Like a dog, like how you would train an overeager Labrador. Then he would apologize without meaning it and eventually take me home. There was no gearshift between us in my room, though. The bed was here. The door was mostly closed and Mom was all the way downstairs, humming along with the radio.
“Maybe later.” I reached into my backpack for my script. “I have to memorize the rest of my lines first, remember? Will you help me?”
“Seriously?”
I nodded and he groaned. “Come on, Hattie. I can’t read that stuff.”
“It’s good for you.” I smiled, a flirty little smile, and sat down on the bed next to him, opening the book. “See, you just have to read whatever comes right before Lady MacBeth’s lines and then make sure I’m saying them right.”
I pointed out the highlighted text, but Tommy was concentrating on other things. He pulled me against him and landed a sloppy kiss behind my ear.
“Not now.”
When I tried to pull away he tightened his grip, keeping me close.
“Just a little,” he mumbled and moved to my mouth.
Somehow his other hand found the back of my head and held me still as he kissed me. I felt like I was suffocating and couldn’t even picture Peter the way I usually did.
“Tommy,” I managed when he came up for air.
“What?” His hand squeezed my breast. How did he grow so many hands?
“Not now,” I repeated and managed to squirm away.
He grunted and lounged back against the wall, not even bothering to hide the bulge in his jeans. “It’s not ever with you.”
“My mom’s here. And I really do have to learn this.”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this play.”
“I don’t understand why you play football.” I mimicked him in the same stupid tone as I cued the video camera on top of the dresser.
“Okay, okay.” He sighed and picked up the script, then squinted at it like it was in Chinese. “This part?”
“You’re a sweetheart.” I gave him a peck on the cheek and backed into the center of the room. While he worked up the nerve to say Shakespeare out loud, I let myself become Lady MacBeth. I looked at Tommy until the horny teenager faded away and he became my instrument. I looked at his fingers and saw a hand that was mine to wield, that I could drive to murder the king himself. I looked at his confused expression and saw the madness that we would soon share. I became cold, too cold to feel. By the time he cleared his throat to say his first line, I could taste my own death.
Somehow on the Friday of spring break we got a perfect day, the kind of nauseating perfection you only see in commercials. The sky was cloudless and the sun warmed you in your bones as it devoured the snowbanks. Dad immediately disappeared into the barn, getting his equipment ready for planting, while Mom paged through seed catalogs for her garden and hung sheets out on the line to dry. I was giddy because during my shift on Wednesday Peter had dropped off a flash drive with a single picture on it. It was a photograph of the barn.
“Enjoying your spring break?” he asked nonchalantly when he came back for the picture.
“It’s nothing special.”
“Maybe it’ll pick up by Friday morning.”
“Mmm, I hope so.” I tried to sound bored as I rang him up and contained the excitement that rocketed around inside me.
I left the house as if I was going to work and called in sick. Peter was waiting for me when I got to the barn. His wife and mother-in-law had gone to the hospital for a bunch of tests all day, so we hiked into the middle of their property, away from any roads or houses or outbuildings, where a giant oak tree marked the intersection of four fields. We’d both come prepared this time. I brought a quilt and the book he’d given me for Christmas and he brought a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. He flipped through the book and read some lines aloud while we picked at the cheese and crackers and sipped pinot noir from Dixie cups. I’d never had wine outside of church before and even though it tasted dry and coppery, I didn’t mind. I’d rather drink wine with Peter than all the beer in the world with Tommy.
After a while I laid my head in his lap while he leaned against the tree trunk, read, and stroked my hair. I listened more to the tone of his voice than the actual words. I started to feel like a cat, like I wanted to rub my head against his thigh and stretch and roll in the warmth of the sun. Maybe the wine was getting to me.
“So he spends his entire worthless life searching for V.” Peter flipped the book shut and set it aside.
Usually I loved listening to him talk about books, to hear that crisp analytical tone in his voice as he lectured the class, but the more he’d read of this one, the more depressed he sounded, especially about that weird stalker character. I asked him who V was, to change his focus, and he perked up a little.
“That’s the unsolvable mystery, the unknowable question. Pynchon would never be so prosaic as to attempt to answer it.”
I rubbed my cheek against his pant leg. “Well, I didn’t ask Pynchon. I asked you.”
He was quiet for a minute while his fingers continued to sift through my hair, starting at my scalp and smoothing the strands over his thigh and down to the ground. It was hypnotic, addictive. I wanted to lie in the sun and feel him stroking my hair forever. My eyes drifted closed.
“I should say that I’m not that prosaic either, but it’s irresistible. She haunts you as you read, like a ghost drawing you through each page.” He paused again, hesitating. “When I gave it to you I thought V was you, in about fifty years.”
I laughed. “And you’re the man searching for me?”
“I don’t know. Probably. It doesn’t matter who I am. It’s about you, who you are. I still don’t even know what to call you. All your names. All your identities.”
“It’s just acting, Peter.”
“No, it’s not. A person’s actions dictate who they are. You can’t be a Democrat if you vote Republican. You can’t call yourself a vegetarian if you eat steak. And your actions, they don’t add up to one single person. I watch you, Hattie. You gossip with Portia before class, egging on all her ridiculous ideas, feeding her one bullshit line after another. You let Tommy paw you in the middle of the cafeteria while you blush and giggle. You play teacher’s pet with every single staff member I’ve talked with and they all think you’re going to major in their field. And I can’t find one hint that any of it bothers you. You say you’re just acting, but you’re fracturing yourself into a thousand pieces, and every time I see another piece, you’re gone again. You turn into someone else, a crowd of someone elses, and it makes me wonder if there’s any such thing as Hattie Hoffman. I could have hallucinated this whole affair.”
He laughed bitterly. With my eyes still closed, I reached a hand up and drew my finger along the inseam of his pants until I reached the center.
“Do you think you’re hallucinating right now?” I brushed my fingers back and forth until I felt his body respond.
“Hattie . . .” His voice sounded strangled.
“Would you like to hallucinate
some more?” I reached for his pants buttons, and he grabbed my hand.
“Stop it.”
I sat up, annoyed. If I had done that to Tommy, he would have forgotten his own name, let alone any question he might have had about mine.
“What’s your problem, Peter? Why did you even want to see me today?” I demanded.
“You like it, don’t you? You like manipulating people. Does it make you happy to have Tommy panting after you? To have Portia mimicking you like some brainless clone?”
“No. That’s not how it is.”
“The first time I met you, you told me you drop an alias whenever it stops being fun. Do you have fun knowing what you’ve turned me into? I loathe myself every time I think about us.”
“I don’t want you to feel that way.”
“Said the actress.”
“I don’t like it, okay?” I shouted, then dropped my head and breathed for a second. “I used to. I used to love it, but now I just feel trapped. There’s no person, no character I can put on that takes away this empty feeling in my gut when I’m not with you. I hate it. I hate that I can’t escape it, I can’t act it away. And I go through every day miserable because all I really want is . . .”
I faltered. It wasn’t time to tell him yet.
“What? What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“God, you’re such a teacher.” I turned away from him, unbelievably frustrated. Today wasn’t going at all how I imagined. We should have been wrapped up in this quilt together, laughing, kissing, enjoying every stolen moment. Psychoanalysis should have been the last thing on his mind.
“You want to name everything, to analyze it and shove it into a little box in your head next to a million other boxes just like it. Labels and dates and a neat little synopsis for each one. Fine. I’ve got a synopsis for you. You want to know who I am? You want me to tell you something else that’s true?”
My heart was racing all of a sudden. This wasn’t the plan, but I could feel the words bubbling up in my throat. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I spun back around and gripped his hand, clinging to it, hoping and dreading what was going to happen next.
“I’m Hattie Hoffman, actress, CVS clerk, and Pine Valley high school senior. I’m in love with Peter Lund and I want him to move to New York with me.”
His face froze. He stared at me for what felt like forever and I didn’t know if he was going to hug me or yell at me. We’d never talked about the future. My future, yes, but not his. Not ours. This relationship existed outside of our lives; it had no sense of time or progress.
Suddenly Peter yanked his hand away, stood up, and walked to the edge of the branches hanging over us. I followed him.
“Peter? Say something.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say yes.”
He laughed again, but it was a hard sound now. It made my stomach clench.
“Oh, okay. I’ll just go to New York with you. That sounds simple.”
“It is. It can be.”
“Where will we live?”
“We can sublet a room somewhere. There’s a million listings on Pulse.”
“And how will we pay for that room?”
“I have over two thousand in savings. And I’ll transfer to one of the pharmacies there.” I rattled off a few of the CVS locations I’d memorized from their website, touching his shoulder, but he pulled away.
“And you can teach,” I added.
“Do you even know what the licensing requirements are in New York?”
“Licensing?”
He laughed that awful laugh again. The conversation was turning on me. This wasn’t supposed to happen. If I had taken more time and researched things, I could have answered him. I could have shot down his every objection. But no—he demanded I be honest and like an idiot I was. Now he wouldn’t even look at me. I felt the desperation in my throat, closing it off like stage fright, and it made me bounce on my toes, quick bounces to try to shake it off.
“We’ll figure everything out. We’ve got the whole summer to figure it out.”
“The whole summer?” He stretched out the word whole, using that sarcastic voice he got when he wanted me to feel like I was four years old.
“How long do you need? People move to New York all the time.”
“Our situation is a little more complicated than most people’s.”
“Don’t you want to go with me?”
He didn’t say anything and I almost started crying right then. Then he put a hand over his face. “I do.”
The hope and love surged through me so fast and fierce I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Then come with me.”
“It’s not that simple.” Finally he turned around. His eyes were full of despair.
“Actually it is.”
“I’m married, Hattie.”
“So get unmarried.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It really is, Peter. You say I don’t want to be married to you anymore. Here are the divorce papers. Goodbye.”
“Her mother is dying.”
“Her mother was dying two months ago when you ran off to Minneapolis to sleep with me. She was dying an hour ago when you were kissing me under this tree.”
“Mary can’t know about this. The last thing she needs right now is—”
“I don’t care what the last thing Mary needs is. I’ll tell her myself. She comes in to the pharmacy every week for her mom’s prescriptions.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” His voice went low and scared. He grabbed my arm.
I leaned in close, close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to see his pupils dilate and the blood beat against his throat.
“You have no idea what I would or wouldn’t do, Peter. Remember? All my names, all my identities that make you so crazy?” I gave him a tight, angry smile, even as my heart was breaking. “Who knows which one your wife might meet the next time she stops in for her meds?”
I wrenched my arm out of his hand, hard enough that it hurt, and marched down the hill and back toward the barn. I wanted to look back, to see if he was following me to apologize, but I didn’t. I wanted to run, too, faster than anyone had ever run before, but I didn’t do that either. I walked in the dried mud tracks of a combine that had plowed through these fields last fall, letting the tears come, feeling the ache in my arm where he’d grabbed me. By the time I got back to the pickup, I was sniffling and trying not to lose it completely. I drove home and walked in the front door to see Mom sitting at the kitchen table with my computer open in front of her. She looked from the screen to my face with heavy, disappointed eyes.
“We need to talk.”
DEL / Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I GOT back to the station that afternoon after talking to Fran, half hoping the DNA results would be sitting on my desk. Instead, Mona was waiting in my office, her hands quietly folded and eyes down as she sat in the visitor’s chair. Winifred Erickson was with her. I thought about my phone call with Bud this morning, how he’d hung up on me, while I stood on the other side of the glass looking at them.
Jake came over with some warrants: two for outstanding tickets and one failure to appear. County business still had to go on.
“How long have they been here?” I asked as I signed the warrants.
“Twenty minutes maybe.” He kept his voice down. “I tried to get them to wait in the conference room, but they just walked in there and sat down. Didn’t say a word to anyone.”
I nodded. “What else do you have?”
“The rest of Hattie’s computer was pretty clean. A lot of temporary internet files and cookies for New York websites. It looked like she was browsing for places to live, even made a few inquiries by email. No confirmations, though. I didn’t get the feeling she was ready to hightail it, just getting the lay of the land.”
Jake glanced around to make sure no one was nearby before continuing. “No other commun
ication with LitGeek, as far as I can see.”
“And her phone records?”
“Nothing. Tons of texts, all to friends, and a few every week with Tommy.”
“Anything off about the ones with Tommy?”
“Not much to ’em. Just stuff like ‘See you at 7:00’ and ‘Running late.’ They mostly sent funny pictures. LOLCat and things like that.”
Jake caught my look and tried to clarify. “Uh, internet pictures. With cats. That want cheeseburgers.”
“Uh-huh.” I finished signing the warrants and handed them back. “I need you to send the entire case file, pictures included, to the FBI.”
“What?” Jake couldn’t keep the volume down on his surprise. “Are we turning it over?”
“No, we’re getting some help.”
I gave him the information for Fran’s contact, a forensic psychologist who evaluated crime scenes. Normally I wouldn’t have much use for a psychological anything, but Fran said he was “peerless” in the state, and I wasn’t going to turn my nose up at anyone who might be able to point his peerless finger at our killer.
“I want a call with him today, tomorrow at the latest. And tomorrow we’re bringing both suspects in again—right after Hattie’s funeral—to go over their Friday nights in detail. Let’s see if any stories start changing after they’ve spent all day with her casket.”
Jake got to work and I left the business and noise of the station behind and opened the door to my office. Winifred turned as I came in, but Mona didn’t even lift her head. She looked like she was made of stone, with her feet together and hands folded over the big, faded purse in her lap. Her eyes saw nothing; everything about her was turned inward, locked inside.
I’d known Mona nearly as long as Bud, saw her pregnant with both Greg and Hattie. Other than the size of her belly, you’d never have thought she was expecting. Whenever the baby gave her a good kick from the inside, she’d said, You just come out here and try that, and rubbed the spot before carrying on with whatever she was doing. Now she worked part-time for the only lawyer in town, doing his typing and filing, while still helping Bud in the fields, taking care of the house, and putting food on the table to boot. She made a mean potpie, with whole mushrooms and big hunks of chicken in a white wine sauce and always served it sizzling right out of the oven. If you complimented her on it, she’d just shrug and say it was nothing fancy.
