by Sandy DeLuca
First time Bobby did somebody in front of me I puked, couldn’t eat for a week, but that time I just counted the money, stacked it up in neat piles as the stench of copper filled the air. I didn’t look back when we left and I haven’t looked back since.
Everybody needs to go on, to feed on something or someone in order to live; food, money, sex, drugs. Bobby and I are different. We need stronger things to survive and we take without asking—without mercy.
* * *
Moving a lot had its drawbacks. I left behind pieces of myself each time, taking pain and disappointment with me. I feared something followed Mary Beth, biting at her heels, waiting to take her down. It would be a matter of time before the law caught up with her—or before the Devil took his payment.
I was nineteen and still a senior in high school. I hoped we’d stay in one place long enough so I could graduate. I didn’t want to drop out, end up working dead end jobs like Mary Beth, living off men met in bars—doing heinous things in order to survive. I figured once I finished school I could split; work in an office, or as a teller in a bank. I would be free, but my father still visited me in dreams, standing in the darkened alley where he was murdered, eyes black and swollen shut, broken bones poking through flesh. He whispered, “Get away from Mary Beth while you can. There’s danger.” Blood poured from his lips, and then mist rising from dirty pavement swallowed him up. I didn’t listen, and I’ve wondered if things would have been different if I had.
I blocked out my mother’s constant verbal abuse by losing myself in books. I spent months lost in stories about women who found love and happy lives; impossible fantasies. I had nothing in common with those women, and the kind of man I needed wasn’t a hero in a romance novel, or somebody I’d meet in school.
I began to read about people like Bonnie and Clyde, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady and Charles Starkweather with Caril Fugate by his side. That kind of love seemed stronger—fiercer—than the lives of femme fatales in romance novels. The women I envied stood by their men when blood spilled, through horror and death. I didn’t realize Mary Beth Farrell’s blood was stronger than dreams of love ever after, and it flowed through my body, molding me, making me more like her than I’d imagined possible—sending me over the edge when we moved to Barlow Falls.
It was my fourth month at Barlow Falls High. During the first few months, Eddie drove me back and forth to classes, but his work calendar became less predictable with new contracts his boss acquired—with darker things he pursued. He sat down to talk with me on the Saturday before his new schedule began, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. “I can give you a ride Monday morning, even pick you up after school if I rush. I don’t have to be to work until late morning, but you’ll have to catch the bus more often now.”
I shrugged. “Just a ride in the morning is fine. Don’t rush. It’s alright. I’ve taken buses before, and I don’t mind riding one back and forth permanently.”
He shook his head, “Kids who take the bus in Barlow Falls sometimes have attitudes. I know a few of them, had dealings with them. Hope you have thick skin, Darcy.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I didn’t realize the bus I’d take and the people on it would change my life forever.
* * *
A phantom face leers at me from semi-darkness, and then shadows consume it. Footsteps sound, a door closes and I hear a key click in a lock. I open my eyes wider, telling myself it was just another dream. I rub my arm and notice the bruise is fading, turning yellow. In a few days it’ll be gone, but another will appear, painful, swollen and mysterious.
Suddenly Jane is here, hovering above me, telling me she’s lonely, and she misses me. She floats downward, arms outstretched, eyes looking into mine, purity gone from her face. I wonder what she’s seen on the other side, what evil she’s encountered. Her eyes narrow as she moves closer to me. I used to scream when she came to me, but I’ve learned to accept it and allow her to tell me what she needs to. She touches me, and then her spirit seeps into my flesh; into my mind, and I see a scene she’s showed me hundreds of times.
Jane is crouched beneath the table, shivering and sobbing. Her pink dress is stained with food—and with blood. Her right eye is black and her nose is caked with red.
My mother is pacing the kitchen floor, cursing, screaming. Abruptly she stops, bends slightly, and then kneels. She crawls to Jane’s side, strokes her hair, whispers, “Hush, sweet, baby girl. I’m so sorry I hit you.”
Jane nestles into my mother’s arms, still crying, shaking violently, and then my mother presses her hand to my sister’s throat, tighter and tighter as the child struggles, and even after Jane is still, when her face has turned white and her eyes are glossed over with death.
Now Eddie is there, cradling Jane in his arms, gently resting her body in the wooden box, and he says, “We’ll bury her somewhere deep in the woods. It’ll be alright.”
“No,” Mary Beth tells him. “Never.”
I want to go back to that night, watch over Jane like I should have, but I can’t change the past. I can’t change who I’ve become.
3
“Those kids who stopped to give us a ride when we got stuck in Tennessee,” Bobby sucks on his cigarette, smoke billows from his nose and lips. “According to the news they’re still missing. The bodies still must be in that abandoned storm cellar.”
“You did it on purpose, copying Charles Starkweather for what he did to those teenagers in Nebraska. It was back in the fifties, wasn’t it?”
Bobby nods. “Inspiration is a cool thing.” He plucks the cigarette from his lips, passes it to me, and then gazes at the bruise on my arm. I accept the cigarette, tasting him, stronger than tobacco, stronger than anything I’ve ever known. “You were right by my side, just like Caril Fugate was with Charlie. It’s just begun, girl. There are so many to learn from—and so many to kill.”
* * *
It felt as though I entered an alternate world when I stepped on that bus. The driver nodded, cocked his head to the side as he took in my body. I felt a bit uncomfortable, but discomfort eased when he smiled, and I smiled back at him. I felt his eyes on me as I moved down the aisle. Overhead lights dimmed and it seemed colder than the winter air I’d just left. Misty tendrils from the rear of the vehicle fogged over the windows.
Most times people never noticed me, never made an effort to acknowledge me, except for a few admiring gazes from boys who passed me in school hallways. A year before I’d decided that guys caused too much heartache and it was better to go it alone, to be invisible. I wore neutral colors, tied back my long blonde hair and opted for loose fitting jeans and sweaters. On that day everyone looked my way, girls and boys seemingly mocking me with their eyes, whispering to each other as I brushed by them.
For a moment I saw Jane, sitting by a window, hands pressed on glass, peering into the shadow world where she resided. She turned, looked my way. Bloody tears streamed down her pasty face when she spoke, softly, slowly, her tinkling child voice sounded like a faraway echo. “Go back home, Darcy.”
She floated away, through the window, back into Death’s arms, when somebody laughed. That laughter brought me back to the smoky winter day and a yellow school bus filled with curiosity and something more sinister.
I thought my blouse might be unbuttoned, or the fly on my jeans open. I quickly slid into an empty seat, did a careful survey of myself, and seeing nothing was amiss, removed a book from my duffel bag. I began to read, getting lost in words and images. Then a spitball hit the back of my neck, another thumped against my face.
I turned around in hopes of getting a glimpse of my attacker, but all I saw were blank faces with dark eyes staring at me.
I settled back in my seat, reopened my book. I read about love dark and unspeakable. I’d memorized the words, but reading them again made me feel more alive, seductive and bold like a woman named Caril.
On January 21, 1958, Charles Starkweather attempted to visit Caril Ann Fugate at her crumb
ling house. She wasn’t home, so Charles grew angry. He fought with Caril’s mother, and then shot the woman to death, along with Caril Ann’s stepfather. Livid, and feeling the power of blood he’d shed, he went on to club Caril Ann’s two-year-old sister to death. Later Charles and Caril drove to the Bennet, Nebraska, farm home of August Meyer, 70, a friend of Starkweather’s family. Charles shot the old man to death.
I imagined the couple moving in darkened night, swearing they loved each other, and never looking back. Caril Ann must have mourned her family—her sister, but Charles had a hold on her—a bond she couldn’t sever. I wondered how she felt and how many times she cried, and then the voices began to taunt me.
“Go back where you came from—you and your mother…No room for you in Barlow Falls.”
I ignored the chants, telling myself I was older than those kids, above their childish bantering, but it wasn’t long before big Jimmy Russo and Carmine DelFino moved into the empty seat behind me. They leaned forward and I felt hot breath on my neck. They didn’t say a word, but their presence felt evil, and they stared ahead blankly when I turned to look at them.
“Dead eyes,” Jane whispered from somewhere behind the veil of life and death.
The driver waved his hand, and then the bus was silent for a moment, within a slice of chilling time. He pulled onto the street humming something low and cryptic, eyes fastened on me, and I swear blood smeared his face and chin. He smiled at me again, his eyes shining, and a fleeting memory emerged, showing me black and white images of my father walking through the dark alley where he died, a figure close behind him. A neon light flashed for a second and the figure’s face became clear, his smile, his eyes, so much like that driver.
I felt revulsion and twisted fascination, and I wanted to know more about the man who grinned at me from the rearview mirror.
* * *
Bobby pulls up at a motel a few miles past my old house. Before long we’re settled in a shabby room with peeling wallpaper, a rickety bed and a rug spotted and stained with the acts and sins of wayward guests.
Sasha and Tim are in the room next door, arguing again.
“We should leave them here, take off before light. They’re getting on my nerves,” I tell Bobby.
“A little while longer,” he says, not looking at me, smiling slightly when fists pound on the wall next door.
“Don’t hurt them. We can leave them—”
I lean against the bed’s headboard and watch as Bobby peers out the window. “I love you, girl,” he whispers through cigarette smoke.
“I love you more,” I tell him when a face manifests in a shadowy corner, and then a hand emerges, holding something sharp in between thumb and forefinger. I hear someone scream beyond these walls. I know that voice and I know what’s coming. I know Death is standing sentinel in icy night, wanting his price, smiling when I give in to darkness he’s offered me.
4
I glanced at the bus driver in the overhead mirror. No blood smeared his flesh, only shadows played across his face. He was a good-looking guy, a year or two older than me, with thick brown hair and dark eyes, reminding me of old James Dean posters I’d seen hanging in city shops. Every now and then his gaze would shift from the road and flicker over faces of his passengers. It was as though he counted every one of us, keeping a cryptic tally for an unseen presence.
He waved a finger back and forth. “You’re all wrong if you think you’re getting away with your bullying.”
A wad of paper hit the driver at that moment. I heard a low growl emerge from the front of the bus, and then a puff of billowing smoke escaped from the driver’s lips.
Mary Sacks, an attractive cheerleader who shared a table with me in Science class, sat across from me. We’d exchanged a few words on occasion and she’d seemed elated when we spoke about classic poets. She grimaced when a barrage of spitballs and other assorted items fired at me from all directions.
I figured she felt distain for my tormenters, so I leaned over, speaking to her softly. “Mary, I have a book you might like. Maybe if you sit next to me—”
She twisted her mouth and spoke to me loud, so that everyone could hear. “I don’t sit with losers.”
The attacks continued until the bus turned onto my street. The driver spoke again, anger evident in his voice. “Jimmy, Carmine, you guys don’t get off the bus until you’ve cleaned up the mess. I’m turning your names in to the principal. You hear?”
An eerie laughter sounded, and then there was silence.
The driver broke quickly at my stop, sending me lunging forward. My book flew from my hands and onto the floor. He gazed at me in the rearview, winked at me, pushed the mechanical handle and the door opened. He waited as I retrieved my book, and then rose from my seat. He said something low and incomprehensible when I passed him.
“What?” I asked him.
“I know all their names. Don’t worry. They’ll pay for what they’ve done.”
I nodded as I took one last look at my offenders, and exited the bus, figuring the driver would turn them in to the school principal.
Mary and Pamela Reardon, another cheerleader, followed me. I heard them speaking softly, huddled close together, wicked scowls on their faces. They disappeared into the corner drugstore, an unlit place with dusty magazines in the front window. Signs boasted of the best ice cream in New England and original penny candy. Spider webs clung to the doorframe and dark stains spattered the window. Lights dimmed, and then shadows hovered behind the magazines. The place gave me the creeps and I wondered if Mary and Pamela indulged in treats advertised on the storefront, and I wondered if those treats had spoiled long ago.
I turned my attention to the bus, watching it move away, sparks flying round black tires, shadowed faces behind smudged windows. For a second I wondered where that driver went when his day ended, if he made cloth dolls, naming them after my tormenters, sticking sharp pins into thread-worn bellies. I chided myself for such a bizarre thought, but later I dreamed of that driver, sitting in the midst of those raggedy dolls, cutting deep into fabric and smiling when blood spurted, opening his mouth and drinking until his pale face flushed and his eyes smoldered.
He looked my way and told me, “This is a city of the dead. Welcome, Darcy. They’ve been waiting for you.”
* * *
Bobby stands in front of me, towel wrapped around his waist, and skin speckled with water. I open my arms and he sits beside me on the bed, and then runs his hand through my hair. He kisses me, hard, with seeming desperation. His lips are hot and his day-old stubble is rough against my face. He helps me out of my clothes and before long he’s making love to me, making me wild with pleasure, and he tells me, “There’s more tonight. Something special.”
I hear voices emerge from the room next door, the bed thumping against the wall, and I fear for Sasha and Tim, wishing they’d rise after lovemaking, go into the night and forget about Bobby.
Jane stands by the door, bloody teardrops streaming down her face, whispering, “It’s not too late.” I turn away from her and wrap my legs tight around Bobby’s back, feeling the terror of his love, knowing nobody can save me from evil, not even an angel baby named Jane.
5
My arm hurts and a new bruise has appeared above the old one, angry and raw. An image of a needle, its tip tinged with red, flashes through my mind. I’ve seen that vision before, and I wonder if my mind plays tricks due to fatigue.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been in this town, or how many nights we’ve slept in this hotel bed. It’s raining now, and it’s gotten colder. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and watch as Bobby counts money we stole. I remember the faces of those we deceived. An elderly woman from Jersey, house filled with antiques and money hidden beneath rugs and in cookies jars. Bobby befriended her in the park, charmed her, and persuaded her he could do repairs on her house. He told her he’d maintain her garden and mow the lawn. She was drawn in by his smile, by the twinkle in his eyes.
I wo
nder if she’s still hanging in the basement, flesh cut away from her bones, blood dripping in pans. I’m sure the cops found her by now and I know people told them that a beat-up van parked outside her house every day, its driver whistling as he pruned the roses and polished the brass trim on yard ornaments. Nobody heard that woman call for help when Bobby began to cut her wrinkled flesh; when I turned up the car radio, singing along with Keith Richards, banging my hands on the dash, smiling as neighbors peered out their windows and opened their front doors.
Last town we were in, Sasha and Tim broke into a high-rise apartment on a dare from Bobby. They took down a man and his wife while they slept, leaving the bodies propped up in bed, and faces streaked with lipstick from the medicine cabinet, hands and feet severed with a chainsaw they found in the garage. They took jewelry, cash and pieces of flesh back to Bobby.
After a while every house—every street—we visit remains dark after we go away. It’s Death’s plague infecting everyone we meet, leaving only sorrow, and Bobby tells me, as he shuffles dollar bills, tens and twenties, “I know all their names.”
* * *
At two in the morning my papers were written and I’d memorized Math formulas. I couldn’t sleep, even with dead silence in the house’s gloomy rooms. My mother slept beside Eddie in one of those rooms, most likely dreaming of her next move, her wooden chest stashed beneath her resting place, and maybe she dreamed of things she’d done. I wondered if Jane visited in those dreams, promising to be quiet, only asking for love and understanding, showing Mary Beth the hell that waited. I read a while, savoring details of another twisted love story.
