Savage Summer

by Ruth Bainbridge

Well, the skies opened and the revelries began. Conversation flowed for the entire afternoon. The barking of the neighbor’s dog reminded me of a short, four-legged bandit that needed to go walkies.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, leaving the room.

  Retreating to the kitchen, I made a pit stop in the guest bathroom before putting in a call to cranky old Marge.

  “I’m already doing it! But I’m letting him use your lawn!” she yelled, puncturing at least one eardrum. She should be happy that I was concerned, but instead, daggers.

  Staying in the kitchen for a bit, I needed a breather. I certainly wasn’t used to this much company, but I wasn’t left alone for long. My dad wandered in.

  “Your mom wanted me to check on the chicken. She hates it when it gets dried out.” Taking the baster, he gave that sucker a bath in its own juices. It finally gave us the chance to really talk.

  “Dad, I’m sorry about not calling.” I guessed it was my day for apologies.

  As he closed the oven door, he dispensed with the utensil by placing it on a ceramic dish.

  “It’s all right, son. I know what that girl meant to you.”

  Before you knew it, we’d taken chairs at the table; my dad sitting kitty-corner to me. He hadn’t changed much, but then, Mom took good care of him.

  “She was my life, Pops. I just wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.”

  “I can imagine. A girl like that … I could never have imagined something like that happening. Your mom and I were already planning on grandkids. Not that we were going to rush you, you understand.”

  “I understand. When I became engaged, I got a tiny glimpse into your world. I started thinking about things differently and that included having children and what they’d mean to me. Are you sorry it was just me? Am I a complete disappointment to you?”

  The question came out of the blue. I didn’t know if he was ready for it, but I wasn’t. I regretted it leaving my lips. I wanted to reel it back in like fishing line, but there it was. My mom wouldn’t have been that thrown. Women were used to having deep, emotional conversations, but men? We only grunted and asked questions that required monosyllabic replies. The only time we held lengthier discussions were when it concerned sports and inconsequentials. But never anything concerning the heart.

  My father was taking way too long to respond, while my mom—my mom would have given a speech on the subject by now.

  His brown eyes quit doing that awkward dance. He stared at me, his tug at his cheek causing his lip to twitch.

  “Son, it’s impossible for you to ever disappoint me.”

  Okay, maybe it’s not necessary to use that many words to get points across.

  “Thanks. You’ve never disappointed me either. I told Ruthie that … that …. I wanted to be just like you … as a husband,” I stuttered as my lips started trembling, “… and as a dad.”

  There went the waterworks. If you’ve ever seen two men sitting at a table and crying, consider yourself lucky. It doesn’t happen all that often. Well, not when alcohol isn’t involved.

  We hugged each other for a few minutes, just getting it out. When we stopped, we refueled on water and picked up where the wheel came off the cart.

  “So they still don’t know anything?” my dad asked.

  “Nope. I’ve been placing ads.”

  “Ads?”

  “Yes, small penny ads offering a reward for information about what happened.”

  “How long have you been doing that?”

  “Since the police gave up.”

  He sighed, drinking more liquid. He was a good man. One that didn’t understand violence. I hoped he’d stay that way.

  “Have you gotten any leads?”

  There was that question. I wasn’t going to lie.

  “Not really, but someone’s been calling. This is just between you and me, though.”

  “So your mother …?”

  “No, I don’t want Mom to know. There’s really nothing to know, anyway. This guy is probably a clown, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Yes, provided he doesn’t just want the money.”

  “I thought the same thing, and, no, it’s not about the money.”

  “You’ll tell me if anything changes.”

  “I promise,” I replied.

  “Speaking of money, do you need any? I know you weren’t working, and if you do, just tell me.”

  “Dad, you are like this perfect guy. It’s so hard living up to what you’ve done with your life.”

  “Nonsense!” He dismissed, swatting the air with his hand.

  “I’m serious. Your job, the houses you design …”

  “You could have been an architect. You still could.”

  “No, I wouldn’t be any good. Then there’s your marriage. You’re both happy. I mean, really happy. It’s going to be impossible to match that.”

  “Then don’t,” he advised. “Just live your life on your own terms, Curt. Just be what you want to be and it’ll be fine. Besides, your marriage was taken away, wasn’t it? You and Ruth would have lasted together. I could tell. You were good for her and she knew it.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. I was lukewarm about her in the beginning. You know that. She was so reserved on the outside, but that girl won me over. Seeing her with you, it had a surety to it. I was sorry to lose her. There’s a gap in my life, too.”

  “There you two are!” my mom exclaimed, making an entrance. Immediately going to the oven, she put her mitt on and tested the chicken. “Great job, Bill. Oh, this’ll be so moist that it’ll melt in your mouth.”

  She slipped off the glove, replacing it on the hook.

  “Now are you two done in here? Aunt Birdy was asking about you.”

  I met my dad’s eyes.

  “Yup, We’re good to go.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, I rifled through emails that Ruthie had written to me. Call me a bozo for doing so, but that phone call had stuck in my head like wet toilet paper to the heel of my shoe. Yeah, that had happened to me too, but incidents like that keep you humble.

  So who the hell was her favorite mythological character? Beat the hell out of me. As I clicked open email after email, I saw that she had thrown in references to Greek literature, but she did things like that. Unfortunately, none of the phrases came with footnotes. I should add that these weren’t quoted to flaunt her intelligence. It was more that she found these kinds of things interesting. Like some men who recite baseball statistics. But if there had been some deep-seated love affair with one of the deities, I didn’t know. The gods and goddesses appeared to be mentioned in connection with her studies. Seemed one of Bramley’s feet was planted in Athens.

  All the perusing of her writings got to me. Some contained such intimate utterings of affection that it would stop my heart if I let it, but none were giving me the ipso facto anonymousa answera.

  I poured another cup of coffee, munching down a salad that I made out of organic produce. Would this farmer market special set the high bar for the most nutritional content consumed since last year? Make that since birth and you’d be getting warmer. Remembering that Ruthie liked to send non-virtual greeting cards for special occasions and to express whatever the cat on the front was captioned saying, I hopped on up the stairs like a bunny on a carrot high.

  I dug out a cardboard box that I’d buried in the back of my closet and placed it on the bed. When I sorted through the correspondence, I found there was nothing at all mythological—at least nothing that I could see. I lay back on the bed with the back of my hand resting on my forehead. My position must have resembled any one of thousands of stage actors taking their best shot at portraying Romeo’s dying scene. I can tell you that everyone that I’d seen got it wrong. No one dies pretty.

  A black ball of fur came bounding in. Mooch had awoken from his fifty thousandth nap of the day. I wasn’t quick enough to thwart the attack. Leap
ing onto my groin and then my chest, his paws went on either side of my neck. After he delivered the sloppiest kisses this side of the junior prom, I finally got a hold of the wiggle worm’s sides. Pressing him to my chest, I sat up, legs going into a lotus position. I kissed the top of his head, a glint of silver catching my eye. I’d brought Ruthie’s necklace upstairs for safekeeping and so it would be next to me when I slept.

  Stretching over, I grabbed it, kissing the ornament.

  “Ruthie, if that call means anything, please tell me the name of your favorite character or put me in touch with someone that knows.”

  Before you could say, “I don’t believe in the supernatural,” the phone rang. Looking at it suspiciously, I froze. Rolling over to Ruthie’s side of the mattress, I was careful not to crush Mooch. Flattened dogs are only funny in cartoons.

  “Hello, Curt.”

  “Becca?”

  Even the hairs in my nose were standing on end. Beckanne Chalmers was Ruthie’s childhood friend. If anyone knew the answer to the riddle, it would be her.

  “Surprised to hear from me?” she asked.

  “Of course. How have you been, Becca?”

  “Just fine. And you?”

  “Hobbling along, but at least I’m moving.”

  Laughing a bit, she sighed. “Now, see, that’s the reason I called. You really loved her, didn’t you, Curt?”

  “More than my right arm,” I assured her as Moochie started whining and I started petting him.

  “I know you did. I saw those ads. They’re from you, aren’t they?”

  “Guilty as charged. Someone knows something.”

  “I suppose, but … look, I’m here in Creston for a couple of days.”

  “You stopped here?” She was far too rich to be doing things like that.

  “Yes, my fiancé is from Creston. He invited me to attend his parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  “A milestone. Can’t miss that.”

  “No, I can’t. I was wondering if you’d like to meet for dinner. Catch up and talk a bit … about what we’re doing now and Ruthie’s murder. I still can’t believe—”

  The catch in her voice told me she was breaking down. I fully understood.

  “Hey, it’s all right, Becca. I know how you feel. And as for dinner, I’d love to.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I entered Margrite’s, feeling like hamburger left on the counter for five days. Ruthie had tried to make me feel more confident in frequenting chic places, but unlike her, I hadn’t been born with a t-shirt that read “Trust Fund Baby.” I always felt too big, too clumsy, and too poor to be joining the bluebloods in their stomping grounds. It might have been one reason I always felt I wasn’t good enough for Ruth. The other reason was that it was what everyone kept telling me.

  “Becca,” I said to the girl dressed in a gossamer dress. Seemingly woven out of spun silver, sparkling beads had been hand sewn at regular intervals. Each was individually knotted, and blame the TMI on the metrosexualization.

  Her red hair tumbled over her shoulders in pre-Raphaelite curls. The color framed her milky skin in a harlot’s red. Her eyes were green; the exact color of jade. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose; you could just bet they dusted her willowy body.

  “Curt,” she replied, extending a manicured hand. Rising, she gave me a tepid embrace, not because she didn’t like me, but because it would have seemed carnal to do more.

  Smiling, I sat across from her. A waiter sprang into action, bringing over a tumbler full of cold water, my very own basket of fresh bread and soft butter, and a menu encased in a leather portfolio.

  “It’s good to see you, Becca. Seems like old times, but not quite.”

  “I know what you mean,” she offered, pushing past my clumsy phrasing. “Every single day there’s something that reminds me of her. Even worse, there’s something I see that she would like. A movie, a pair of shoes. I have the impulse to call her, but realize I can’t. She dies every single day.”

  Her cool exterior hid a lot. Another reminder never to judge a book by its cover.

  “You too? Thought it was only me still hanging on. I even went through her old letters today. She mentioned something about a favorite Greek character, but I have no idea who she was talking about. Do you?”

  Taking another sip of water, I hoped the cover story was good enough to warrant asking that question.

  “Greek character? Like in a book?”

  “I think she said ‘mythological.’”

  “Yes, I do remember now. It was Demeter. She loved the whole story of Persephone and how Demeter loved her daughter so much that she blighted the crops when she was abducted. She also was the goddess that the Rites of Elysian were devoted to.”

  “Demeter? Thanks.”

  The conversation dying, we began slowly, chitchatting about the weather and whether low-carb diets were nutritionally sound. We were working up to why she really wanted to see me. She nibbled through the appetizer while I gorged. Our entrées were served; the Beef Bourguignon earned one Michelin star all on its own. Munching away, there actually came a moment when my mouth was empty enough to throw out a question. Not knowing when another opportunity would come along, I went for it.

  “Did your fiancé know her?”

  “Fiancé?”

  Her arched brow lifted to cosmetically altered proportions. It had hardly been a trick question. I lifted a bushy brow of my own.

  “I’m sorry, Curt. Before we go any further, there is no fiancé. I just made him up. I don’t know why—I’m a terrible liar.” Dropping her fork, she divulged more. “Yes, I do know why. It’s because I had to talk to you and needed an excuse.”

  “About what? I mean, I’m assuming it’s about Ruthie, but …”

  “Yes, it’s about Ruth. I don’t know … maybe this was a bad idea.” She looked around. I recognized the flight or fight syndrome.

  I placed my hand over hers. Trying to be conciliatory, I wanted to hear what was causing this much consternation.

  My touch did seem to calm the smooth lake that was Becca. I suddenly wondered how deep the water was.

  “Look,” I began. “You don’t know me all that well, but you were Ruth’s best friend, so she must have talked about me. If she did, then you know I don’t go blabbing things out of school. So if you want to keep this entire conversation confidential, it’ll stay that way. If you don’t trust your judgment, trust Ruthie’s.”

  The green disappeared behind a veil of tears. Choking back more, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a napkin.

  “Ruthie’s judgment. That’s the problem,” she muttered.

  “Why would you say that? Are you talking about choosing me?”

  “No, no,” she countered. “I don’t mean that all. You were good for her. She told me that many times, and I saw it for myself. I guess it’s about trust. I have so many issues with trust, but I would like this to remain between us. I just wish there was some way of being sure you are what you appear to be.”

  “I am, Becca. What you see is what you get.”

  “Maybe in your case, but that aphorism is a fallacy. A lot of people that resemble the ones sitting around you have some insidious secrets hiding in their closets.”

  “Does this go back to why you don’t trust people?”

  “Yes. Something happened to me as a child and it was done by someone that looked just like that man over there.” I took a gander at the elegantly attired man with the salt and pepper hair, then refocused my attention back on Becca. “Now I’m not saying that particular man is capable of molesting a child; I’m just saying he could be.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Then Ruthie never …?”

  “No. Did you really think she would?”

  “I had to be sure. She’s the only person I ever told.”

  “Then you didn’t go to the police?”

  “No. He’s dead.”
/>   “I see.”

  “Besides, I only recently remembered. It was in my first year of college. I was studying and I had a flashback. Ruth and I were roommates, so I told her about it. After that, the images just kept coming. I thank God that she was in my life. She was so sympathetic and knew just the right things to say. It was like she’d gone through it herself, but she hadn’t. It was only because she’d been through her own personal tragedy.”

  “Her sister,” I said, knowing what Becca was referring to.

  “Yes, Stella. She was a half-sister, you know. From her father’s first marriage.”

  “No, I didn’t know, but I wouldn’t expect her to parse those kinds of details. Family is family. That’s what she always used to say.”

  “She was right about that—and you. It took me a while to realize that you couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “You really thought I had?”

  “I wanted to believe it. Only because I wanted closure and for the uncertainty to go away. But the year since her death has convinced me of my first instinct—you couldn’t have possibly had anything to do with her death, which brings me to the phone call, and coming here.”

  I chewed slowly. She was reaching that creamy center. She pushed her half-emptied plate away.

  “I know this is going to sound absurd, but I feel her around me lately.”

  I slammed the glass I’d been drinking from down. Becca too? This couldn’t be possible. People didn’t come back from graves.

  “I know. The same thing is happening to me.”

  “Really?” Her eyes popped open. She leaned forward with elbows on the table. “Then I’m not going crazy?”

  “If you are, I’m going right along with you,” I retorted.

  “I’m glad you’re being so honest. She always said that about you. That you had integrity. I guess that’s why it’s difficult to say the next part, but I have to. I think she wants you to know. I think she’s pushing me to tell you.”

  Not sure how to react, I kept silent. Only focused on what she had to say; the rest of the world melted away.

  “Here goes. Please forgive me if this isn’t true, Ruth, but, but … I’m convinced that she was having an affair.”

 

  CHAPTER 13

  Talk about being hammered. Now two people were insinuating that Ruthie had been cheating on me—or was it only one? Could Beckanne be Dr. Shadows? Driving home from my dinner with her, I tried my best to concentrate on the road, but this new wrinkle put a different spin on things.