Come Join The Murder

by Holly Rae Garcia

  But she was.

  She didn’t even know if Jon was with Oliver at the end, or if he’d had to die alone, wondering where his mommy and daddy were. The people charged with keeping him safe had let him down. Jon was still missing, and Detective Barnes could only say that they were still working on it. But she knew, the longer it went on, the smaller the chance that they would ever find him. She was angry at Jon for allowing her baby to die, for not being there, and for making her bury their Ollie alone.

  When the door closed behind the last mourner, Rebecca shuffled towards the front of the small white coffin. It was only a few feet from where she had been standing, but it felt like a mile. She was walking at the bottom of a pool and couldn’t see past the surrounding haze. Every step was heavier than the last.

  Rebecca placed her hands on the edge of the casket, one finger after another until her whole hand rested on the white satin that moved like water under her fingers. It was the purest white, the color of clouds on a bright sunny day, or cotton balls glued to a piece of construction paper. That was perfect for Ollie. White was the color of innocence, of a soul taken before life had tarnished it with its imperfections and suffering. And that was her Ollie – innocent. Not just innocent; he was pure. Loud, full of energy, and sometimes a lot to handle... but he could have everyone smiling within minutes of entering a room. To never see that smile again… she buried herself in self-loathing for not being there for him that day.

  His face. She didn’t want to look at his face, because then it would be over. She would have to say goodbye and they would close him up in that hard box, forever hiding his beautiful face. Still clutching the edge of the coffin, she glanced to her right. The setting sun danced through the stained-glass windows, casting shadows across the pews. The only other person left in the church was a stooped, gray-haired woman from the office. She was standing patiently by the front doors, waiting for Rebecca to leave so she could lock up.

  Rebecca closed her eyes, turned her head, and lowered her chin towards her son.

  There was another day, a much more joyful and bright day at the beach, just two months before. Oliver wanted them to close their eyes and try to find which way the sun faced by the warmth on their faces. Rebecca couldn’t help but peek and had to stifle a giggle at the sight of Jon and Oliver turning in circles with their eyes closed. Eventually they all ended up facing the right direction and stood there for a minute, their cheeks flushed with warmth. He was her sun. But as she faced him with her eyes shut tight, his little body lying still on the cold satin, she couldn’t feel him.

  Somewhere, an air conditioner creaked to life and a cool breeze caressed her cheek. A bird tweeted a melody on the other side of the stained glass, and car doors slammed shut in the parking lot. She inhaled the scent of the arrangements of roses and tulips that surrounded her.

  It was all wrong. Her Oliver smelled like dirt and gummy bears, not roses.

  She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. His own blue ones were closed so sweetly, he could have been taking a nap. Her Oliver could never sit still for that long, even in his sleep. His golden hair was never that neat, but tousled from playing; a few sweaty strands stuck to his forehead. But the cold, neat little boy was her Oliver, she couldn’t keep denying it.

  There was the scratch on his cheek from trying to hug the neighbor’s cat last week. Mrs. Ainsley had warned him about picking up Frank, the orange and white striped tabby. Frank was old and tried to avoid everyone. Ollie had snuck up on him while he was sleeping and put his arms around him. Frank was not pleased.

  Tucked underneath Ollie’s arm was his stuffed elephant, Sammy. Sammy was a lot better at receiving hugs than Frank had been. Rebecca had convinced Detective Barnes to let her have Sammy back and spent hours the night before washing the mud and salt water off of him. His mottled blue fur would never look like it did before, but it was important that Ollie have him close.

  Ollie wore his favorite shirt, a white cotton T trimmed in blue. On the front was a lineup of sharks. Starting with a baby on the left, they grew larger as you went down the line, ending with a grandpa shark. She remembered the first day he had come home from Beth’s house, singing that ridiculous song about baby sharks. It had driven her insane, but Jon loved it. He and Ollie ran around the house all week singing it. Below the shirt were his favorite khaki shorts. The ones with lots of pockets to put all of his treasures in. Around his neck was a red superman cape, the one he wanted to wear every day, but Rebecca would never let him.

  She reached down and ran her fingertips through Oliver’s hair, mussing it in the process. That was what his hair should look like. That was her Oliver... and he was gone. She would never again hear his sweet voice singing or his deep belly laugh. She wouldn’t roll her eyes at the shark song or fight with him over a red cape. She would never again wipe sticky doorknobs or shake her head in frustration at his messes. She leaned over to kiss him and watched as a tear fell onto his pale round cheek.

  Opening the door to the parking lot, the noise and brightness of living things assaulted Rebecca. In stark contrast to the quiet boy she had just left, a blazing sun beamed warmth onto her face. Leaves rustled in the breeze overhead, and somewhere in the distance a bicycle horn beeped. Life was still happening, just not to her. She was stuck in that dark, quiet place. Alone.

  Her dad and his new wife, Paula, stepped away from the car hood they had been leaning on and walked towards her. He wore a suit that had seen better days. The elbows and knees were worn and the jacket hung open, unable to close over his ample belly. Paula had squeezed into a dress two sizes too small and, on heels three inches too high, tottered like a baby giraffe learning to walk. She appeared to be playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. Her long red hair hung straight, framing an oval face with entirely too much makeup. False eyelashes, heavy eye-shadow, and dark red lipstick created a faux clown look that had Rebecca shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. Her dad always did like them young and flashy. They had come down from San Antonio for the funeral, though Rebecca wished they hadn’t. She didn’t need step-mother number three trying to relate to her over the body of her dead son. And this one was even younger than the last, almost Rebecca’s age. She didn’t need Paula or anyone else around who didn’t love Oliver the way she and Jon had.

  They helped Rebecca into the car and drove to her home. There wouldn’t be a graveside service. Rebecca couldn’t bear to see them lower her baby into the ground. She remembered her mother’s casket descending into a dark hole, and the family throwing handfuls of dirt on top of it. It was a morbid tradition that she never understood. No, they wouldn’t do that to her baby. The funeral parlor promised to handle him with care and she trusted them. After all, Ollie was gone. It was only his body they would be handling. It wasn’t Oliver.

  Her dad pulled his car close to the curb to let Rebecca and Paula out, then moved to park further down the street. Cars and trucks filled the driveway and lined the sidewalks, some of which Rebecca knew, others she didn’t. She moved away from Paula’s outstretched hand. She didn’t need help to go into her own home. She wasn’t fragile. She was Rebecca. Rebecca could handle anything thrown at her, not always with grace, but it would get handled. When she opened her front door, every head swiveled towards her while the remnants of dropped conversations hung awkwardly in the air. Great. Everyone look at the grieving mother. Scattered coughs and shuffles filled the room as people attempted to resuscitate their conversations.

  She nodded politely at the few who were still looking at her, said “thank you” to a few others who mumbled condolences, and retreated into the kitchen. Leaning back on the counter, she watched the door swing back and forth on its hinges as it slowed and then stopped. She wasn’t sure what she should be doing. Jon was the one with social skills. He would know exactly how to handle the crowd in their living room. The stoic, sympathetic mourners holding paper cups of sweet tea and snacking on veggie trays, careful not to spill anything on their nice clothing.
But Jon wasn’t there... so Rebecca hid out in the kitchen alone, hoping they would all just go away.

  Casseroles, pies, jugs of sweet tea, cookies, and some pink fluffy dessert thing covered the counter behind her. That was the southern answer to everything: food. Lost your job? Eat. Boyfriend broke up with you? Eat. Husband missing and son dead? Eat. While appreciative of the thoughts, it only called attention to the fact that she was alone in the house, staring at enough food to feed an army. There was no way it would get eaten before it all spoiled, even if she had an appetite. How could she eat, or take any comfort in anything, when Oliver could never eat again, and Jon was – who knew where?

  Every day that passed without finding Jon took them one step farther from ever finding him. She had watched enough crime TV shows to know if he didn’t show up in the first few days, the chances were slim that he ever would. Jon’s mother still didn’t know about any of it. Her condition was ‘delicate’, and no one was sure how to handle her. Rebecca was the… well, the last living member of her immediate family if Jon was dead, and there were no cousins around to help with her.

  Rebecca didn’t have very much family left at all and – Alzheimer’s or not – Claire was still her family. She should drive up to see her. The nursing home would be quiet; it seemed to be busiest on the weekends when children begrudgingly took time out of their schedules to put in their obligatory hour. Rebecca and Jon had made the trip a few times since Oliver was born, but it became harder to understand (or be understood by) her. Besides, with work and... life, it was hard to set aside time to spend on someone who wouldn’t even know you were there. It was better for Jon, anyway. It was hard for him, seeing his mother like that. But at the moment, Rebecca welcomed the idea of sitting with someone who expected nothing from her.

  Rebecca stayed in the kitchen for the majority of the evening, only reappearing to walk the last of the mourners to the door. Well, almost last. Her dad and Paula were still there. He picked up the trays and cups from the living room while his wife tried to arrange the Tetris game that was Rebecca’s refrigerator. Both quietly worked, understanding that she didn’t want to talk. Rebecca let them clean and sat down on the couch in the living room. She should have felt bad for resting while they worked around her, but she just didn’t care.

  As she sank into the old upholstery, she was glad for once they hadn’t replaced it last summer when Oliver was eager to try out his new scissors. The scissors were child safe, but not couch safe. She moved the strategically placed pillow and touched the edges of the hole, wishing she hadn’t yelled at him that day. It was a normal reaction. But then, sitting there on the couch alone, she wished she could go back and see his lips quivering and his blue eyes filling with tears and stop herself from getting angry. She wished she could have hugged him and told him it was Okay. But she couldn’t. All she could do was sit there and feel the emptiness where he used to be.

  The drapes near her were open – someone must have opened them – and a beautiful blue sky shone through the window. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight. Two kids rode their bikes down the sidewalk, laughing to each other. The week before, Oliver rode on that same sidewalk. Jon had promised to take the training wheels off his bike that weekend. She winced at the realization of promises broken, and a future that would never come.

  She jumped up, not noticing as the pillow dropped from her lap and hit the floor. She stomped towards the open window and gripped the edges of the plaid curtains. Laughter floated down the street as the kids turned the corner and disappeared. The hooks rattled on the rod as she jerked the curtains closed and remained facing them, fighting back a sob. It just wasn’t fair.

  At the sound of a throat clearing, she turned from the window to see her dad and Paula had entered the room. Had they watched her almost rip the curtains off the rod? Did she even care if they had? The kitchen was clean, and there was nothing left for them to do but leave.

  “Honey, we can get a hotel and stay a few days, make sure you’re okay,” her dad said as he hugged her. His pale blue eyes glistened behind his thick glasses.

  “I’m okay, really. I’m sure they’ll find Jon any day now,” Rebecca answered.

  “Well, if you change your mind, please call me.”

  After she promised him she would, they walked towards the door and she thanked them for helping out. When they stepped onto the front porch, Paula turned to Rebecca.

  “Honey, please don’t hesitate to call if you need any-…”

  Ignoring her, Rebecca closed the door of her house behind them and locked it, thankful for quiet at last. She returned to her spot on the couch, set her hand on the ragged edges of the hole in the fabric, and faced the closed drapes. She could shut out the bright sunny day, and the vision of children living and laughing, but she couldn’t shut out the noises. Through the drapes and through the window, laughter echoed back at her. The kids must have turned around and headed back down her street. One of them called out something unintelligible to the other one, and they both laughed. The empty, dark house around her was so still and quiet. She could hear cars going down the street, dogs barking, and the click-click of her air conditioner as it struggled to keep up with the heat.

  Life went on, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know how to exist in a world where Oliver didn’t. She closed her eyes and leaned back, welcoming the flood of tears and sobs that drowned out everything else.

  6

  James’ mama had lived in the Third Ward since as long as he could remember. About thirty minutes south of Houston, to him it was just the ghetto, where dreams came to die and the rent was always late. He blew that joint as soon as he could and hadn’t looked back since, except to come see his mama from time to time.

  The Third was an old neighborhood, one of the original in their shitty little town. Built with promise, every building had been new and full of hope. Back then, it was the place to be. But that was before they routed the highway over to the other side of town. Businesses in the Third took a big hit. No one wanted to drive across town for a haircut, or to use the laundromat anymore. Not with all the new places setting up shop over by the new highway. Thirty years later, they were left with a few crumbling churches held together by prayers and duct tape. The laundromat was still going, and the barber had his loyal customers, but relying on anyone living in the Third to keep you in business was risky. Most of them lived in homes they inherited or rented from slumlords. Either way, the houses were dilapidated. Broken shutters hung at odd angles, mold crept over faded paint, and cracks filled every sidewalk. It was the neighborhood everyone forgot. The city claimed to never have money to fix it up, and the Thirders couldn’t afford to do it on their own. So, they just existed, day to day and as best as they could. It was a hard life. Most were uneducated and, if they had a job, underpaid. Others lived on government checks and child support. But they lived. To them it was home and the only community they had ever known. The Baptist church held dinners about once a month, and invited everyone even if they never had a butt in their pews. The Barber, Miles, would hook you up if you needed to look nice for a job interview but couldn’t pay him. Thirders were good people.

  James’ mama’s house was wood-framed and painted a bright yellow... about twenty years ago. Rusty metal pillars held up a small front porch, where she spent most of her days watching the neighborhood and being nosy. She was there, sitting on the front porch wearing nothing but an ankle length nightgown, when he pulled onto her gravel driveway. A faded fold-up lawn chair strained beneath her immense weight. Gray streaked through her dusty brown hair. She had once been beautiful; he knew. Not when she had ever been his mama, but before that. Before she met his dad and all the light was sucked out of her, leaving dull blue eyes straining to see the good in the world through her old metal glasses. When she saw him, she took a quick drag off her Pall Mall before twisting it out into the ashtray that balanced precariously on top of the mesh cup holder attached to the arm of the chair. A grin flashed across her face and her e
yes lit up. Yeah, she used to be the kind of girl that would turn heads when she walked down the street. But that was about thirty years and three hundred pounds ago.

  “Jimbo!”

  She was the only one who could get away with calling him that. He’d knocked teeth out of guys twice his size for calling him that.

  “Hey mama.”

  “Help me get up, now. I can do it, of course, but since you’re here you don’t mind helpin’ your mama now, do you?”

  She rocked back and forth while James held her arm to steady her, his fingertips disappearing into the creases and folds of her plump skin. Finally gaining the momentum she needed to project herself into a vertical position, she straightened with a huff; her cheeks red from the exertion. He put his arms around her and she hugged his neck before giving him a once over.

  “Are you eating right? You look skinny. Come on in and let me cook you somethin’.”