Walking Through Needles

by Heather Levy

  “Did my dad ever contact you in ‘94, sometime in late December?” Eric said.

  Les scrunched up his face in thought for a moment.

  “No. I didn’t hear much from him after he moved to Blanchard, and I haven’t seen him since you both stayed here after your mama passed.”

  Eric’s leg bobbed up and down, shaking the loveseat until Sam touched his thigh.

  “When I heard about what happened, I couldn’t believe it,” Les said. “I knew he had a temper, but he loved you and always wanted to do right by you.”

  “He had a funny way of showing it,” Sam said.

  Les set his teacup down and rubbed the metal ball that was his kneecap. “I guess we never really know people, not behind closed doors.”

  Eric was quiet in thought next to her, rubbing his left leg.

  “Is there anyone else he might’ve contacted?” she said.

  “I don’t think he had many people to turn to, not after his brother Jobe died. I really don’t know, he never talked much about family, but I expect he called Vickie.”

  “Who’s Vickie?”

  Eric stood up, his entire body rigid. “We should go.”

  What the hell? Sam looked over at Les who shared her confusion. She had never seen Eric react like that, and it lodged a splinter of fear in her chest.

  Faster than Sam expected, Les stood and gripped Eric’s shoulder. “Arrow, what’s this all about? Did something happen to your dad?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Eric looked at Sam, his eyes urging her to get up. “Thank you for the tea, but we need to get going.”

  “You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” Les said. “I’d love to know what you’ve been up to.”

  Sam touched Eric’s arm. “Yeah, why don’t we stay? We came all this way to leave already.”

  Eric’s mouth grew tight. “Another time. I have some work I’ve got to do at my place.”

  She didn’t know why Eric was lying, but she knew it had something to do with the woman Les mentioned.

  “So,” Sam said after a few minutes of watching Eric drive in silence, “you going to tell me what that was about?”

  Eric kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  “Who’s Vickie? And why didn’t you tell Les that Isaac’s truck was at the bottom of a pond?”

  “We should stop to eat.”

  “Jesus Christ, Eric, I went on this wild goose chase with you. Be honest with me.”

  Eric exited the highway and pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and stared out at the golden arches.

  “Your mom suggested we talk to Les, not me.”

  “Okay, but at least we have some kind of direction with this Vickie person.”

  “We’re not going to see her.”

  “Why? Who the hell is she?”

  He didn’t look at her, but Sam could tell he was weighing something in his mind, maybe how much to tell her. The thought that he didn’t trust her felt like swallowing a bucket of ice.

  He let out a long sigh.

  “Vickie was married to my dad’s brother.”

  “So, why have you never told me about her?”

  “Jobe was army like my dad, but he got killed in the Gulf War. He was a good man. Vickie was one of the people we stayed with after my mom died, and she messed around on my uncle a lot.”

  Eric finally looked at her, his jaw tight.

  “But she was loyal to my father. Always.”

  Sam ignored the strange mix of anger and shame seeping into her body and searing her face.

  “We need to contact her, Eric. She could know where Isaac is.”

  “She’s probably dead from an overdose by now. God willing.”

  “She screwed around with your dad. So what? That’s why you don’t want to see her?”

  Eric rubbed his eyes, the line between his brows deepening.

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “Listen, you don’t know what kind of person she is. She’s not—she’s not right. She’s like my father.”

  Sam doubted that. She couldn’t imagine any woman doing the things Isaac did. She took Eric’s hand, laced her fingers with his.

  “You mean she hurts people?” she asked.

  “Vickie liked it. She liked hurting people. But not the same as him, you know?”

  “Did she hurt you?”

  He looked away from her and she knew the answer.

  “She let him hurt her daughter, her only kid. She had her with some random guy she messed with, but my uncle raised her like she was his own. He wouldn’t have let anyone touch her, not when he was alive.”

  She knew if she asked Eric more questions about Vickie and her daughter that it would only make her relive her own hurt. She imagined a box inside herself, inside Eric too, tucked deep into some dark corner, a place where the hurt could safely live within her. She squeezed Eric’s hand. She had no interest in forcing his box open. Not yet.

  Eric returned the squeeze and gazed at her, his face leaning toward her, and she thought he might try to kiss her. She knew it was a horrible idea, but she wanted to feel his lips on hers. It had been too long since she’d been with someone.

  Then Eric looked away from her, out at the cars lining up in the drive-thru.

  “Let the police find him, Sam. It’s not our job.”

  Her mom’s words. Sam would’ve been lying if she agreed with them. She did want to find Isaac. All these years, she thought she was safe in her new life, but she wasn’t. Her job, her quiet, hermit-like existence, it gave her the illusion of normalcy. But the lies she told fifteen years before, they would haunt her, Eric too, if they didn’t find Isaac alive.

  Chapter 9: Arrow, 1994

  Since that day in the barn almost two weeks before, Sam hadn’t spoken to Arrow at all, not even when they entered their upstairs bathroom at the same time. He understood her angry silence, though. He had left her alone in the barn with his father. He failed to protect her, to warn her, and now she hated him.

  Making sure she was okay was all that mattered now, and he vowed to be better at watching over her. His father was a circling hawk, always around the corner waiting for Sam, offering her rides to the library or the coffee shop when Jeri was working at the feed shop.

  The June afternoon was so hot his Hypercolor T-shirt changed from its normal blue to a pale green. He followed Sam from the town library down Tenth Street to the First United Methodist Church where she settled cross-legged with her pile of books at the top of the covered playset. He had stayed as far behind her as possible so she wouldn’t see him.

  Sam was a quarter of the way through one of the books when she looked up from her page. “Are you going to follow me every damn day like a puppy dog?”

  Arrow pressed himself closer to the brick exterior of the church, holding his breath as if it’d make him invisible.

  “I swear to Jesus, you walk louder than an elephant wearing sleigh bells. Just come on out of hiding and stop being stupid.”

  Arrow slowly walked over to the bottom of the playset’s slide, willing himself to look at Sam. Her black eyes went through him and he couldn’t speak.

  “Let me ask you something, little brother,” she sneered. “Do you know a Meredith Lang from Anadarko? She’s about your age?”

  He swallowed over the sudden lump in his throat. How did she know that name?

  “No.”

  “But you lived in Anadarko before moving here?” She leaned forward, her tank top lowering enough to reveal the tops of her breasts.

  “Yeah, for a while. So what?”

  “And you didn’t know that girl, in that tiny ass town?”

  Arrow shifted his weight and shrugged. “It’s no smaller than here.”

  “Your daddy know her?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” He hated the sudden whine in his voice.

  Sam stood up and walked down the long
slide to him in less than five steps. “The whole town knows you know her.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Stop lying. I looked everything up at the library and read the articles. The papers didn’t print her name, but everyone whispers it and I know you know her.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You know what happened to Meredith?”

  Arrow backed up from her, shaking his head.

  “She was raped—a lot. She had to get stitches.”

  Her eyes flashed anger he’d never seen in her.

  “She had a baby inside her. Did you know that? It was messed up real bad and it died. People talk about it. People talk about you and your dad and that girl, and it can’t all be rumors.”

  Arrow’s stomach rose until he tasted pure acid. He pictured Meredith’s rosy cheeks, her soft strawberry blond hair fanned out over her pillow, the wideness of her blue eyes.

  “Is it true?”

  “No,” he said too slowly and she pushed his chest hard.

  “Did you do it? Did you rape her?”

  He hated seeing so much anger at him in her eyes.

  “No, Sam, I promise. I would never do something like that.”

  “Did your dad?”

  He wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t. It was like a metal trap closed tight over his mouth whenever he tried. He shook his head to free them, but the words stayed trapped.

  She was quiet for a long time, her hands twisting the bottom of her shirt. She looked at him as if she was trying to work out a tricky math problem. “Would you ever hurt me?”

  Sam was the first person in a long time to be nice to him, even when she was playfully mean. He could talk to her. He could tell her things he couldn’t tell anyone else. She was the only person he’d ever fully trusted outside of his mom.

  An image of his mom’s skeletal body flashed in his mind. He didn’t want to think about her, of when she lay dying in the hospital. It was the only time he ever saw his dad cry. If he thought about it too much—of his mom’s funeral after the cancer ate her up, of when he and his dad moved in with his uncle’s widow, Vickie’s cigarette smoke choking him, seeing his dad’s hand tight around her throat as he lifted up her jean skirt from behind…and Meredith—Meredith and her nails always bitten down to bloody stumps—he’d break down in front of Sam. He had to be strong for her. He had to be strong this time.

  “I’d never hurt you. Never.” He paused, afraid to say the words he imagined telling her many times, but not like this. “I—I love you.”

  Sam’s eyes got teary. She looked like she was fighting the desire to run from him.

  “Promise me you won’t lie to me,” she said.

  “I promise.” But he knew as he said it he’d lie again if it meant keeping her safe.

  Sam leaned forward, lay her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her.

  When she lifted her head, he found her lips on his, and he closed his eyes from the sheer pleasure of her wanting him again. He needed her to know he wanted her too, so he ran his hands down the front of her shirt to the button of her cutoff shorts. She didn’t stop him, so he undid the button and lowered the zipper. The more they kissed, the more uncomfortable he felt with his jeans still on.

  He led her under the playset, glancing around to make sure no one was watching them. Then he pulled her cutoff shorts and underwear down her long legs to her ankles, spread her thighs, and buried his head between her legs. At first, she laughed a little from above, but then she got quiet, her hips lifting. He thought of her mouth on him too, but he didn’t ask her. He liked hearing the soft sounds she made.

  As they lay together under the playset, the woodchips poking their backs, Sam placed her hand on his chest. It reminded him of his mom, her hand resting over his father’s heart as he lay next to her on the hospital bed, Arrow not realizing she had already died.

  A shiver ran through him. It seemed too perfect to be holding Sam, the shade of the slide hiding them from others. He wanted to stay hidden with her forever.

  Sam’s face turned red and she smiled at him. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  He imagined his dad’s head lost between pale legs, dyed red hair covering half of a face, lips parted in pleasure like Sam’s had been moments before. And he saw a girl’s face and strawberry blond hair and fear…so much fear he tasted the copper blood of it. The metal trap closed over his mouth, his jaw aching from clenching it shut, but he opened his mouth and freed the words he needed to tell Sam.

  “I used to watch them.”

  Chapter 10: Eric, 2009

  Four days since the drive to Sapulpa and seeing Les, and Eric still couldn’t shake the knee-drop sensation he’d experienced when Les said Vickie’s name. His mom would’ve called the sinking sensation “a knowing,” something she swore his grandmother had too.

  His mom was always having knowings when he was young. There was the time she dreamed a giant crow plucked Eric from the playground and tore him in half. The next day, he fell from the monkey bars at school and split his ulna in two. The doctor said it was the cleanest break he’d ever seen. His mom had other knowings, ones that kept Eric awake at night, like her vision of her swallowing a black storm cloud. No matter how much she coughed and coughed, nothing came out until a tornado of blood ripped from her lungs and swept her away.

  Eric didn’t have knowings, he knew that much. He shook the sensation off again and focused on the small drywall repair for an elderly woman who lived down the street from him. She vaguely reminded him of Grandma Haylin, straight gunmetal gray hair cropped close, a once solid body turning weak on her. She could hardly afford to pay him for the job, so he didn’t tell her the reason why her ceiling had warped and sagged in her living room, how the bathroom above had a severe plumbing leak. He had some extra pex pipe for the broken water supply line, so he fixed it. It wouldn’t have done any good to fix the drywall otherwise.

  He finished the job and declined the stale-looking cookies the lady offered. He had completed the job early and the late afternoon sun was well above the trees on his way home. He pulled onto his street, saw an unmarked black Dodge Charger parked in front of his house, and forced himself to park in his driveway instead of driving on.

  He was barely out of his truck with his drywall tools when a short, solid man wearing a dark suit ambled up to him like he was taking a pleasure walk through the shittier part of the neighborhood.

  “Eric Walker,” the older man said, removing his sunglasses and extending his right hand. “Detective Chad Eastman. Mind if I come inside, ask you a few questions?”

  Sam was right; Detective Eastman looked like an ex-politician with the clothing and hair to match.

  He took the detective’s hand, not caring to wipe the work grime from his own. It unnerved Eric that the man didn’t ask his name but stated it like he had a long-awaited appointment with him.

  “No, sir, don’t mind at all, although I’m not sure what else I can tell you. I already spoke with the other detectives.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk again. You’d be surprised what people remember when you jog their memory a bit.”

  “Well, I just got off work, so you’ll have to pardon me—gotta clean my tools in the garage first or I’ll never get the plaster off.”

  “No problem. We can talk while you clean.”

  “Sure.”

  He led the detective around to the back of the house, unlocking the side door to the old one-car garage. He tossed his keys and tool bag onto his workbench and flipped on the overhead light. Detective Eastman, without being directed, went straight for the only chair in the garage, an ancient orange La-Z-Boy recliner left by the previous owners. Eric looked forward to sitting on it while cleaning his tools each day.

  “You mind if I sit?” The detective said, pointing to the recliner.

  “Not at all.”

  The detective sank back into the chair, letting out a groan
of comfort. Eric sucked in a deep breath and silently cussed out the detective as he walked over to his mini-fridge. He pulled out a bottle of water and looked over to the detective.

  “You like a drink, sir? Afraid I only have water.”

  Detective Eastman smiled at nothing and said, “No, thanks.”

  Eric wasn’t much for the heavy stuff, had no head for it, but he wouldn’t have refused a few shots of whiskey at that moment. He took his time, drinking down the water while trying to get his nerves under control. After he finished the entire bottle, he locked eyes with the detective in a way that, he hoped, would appear to be both curious and ready to help. His heart jackhammered, the water in his stomach sickeningly cool.

  “Let me just get this bucket set up, sir.”

  Eric lifted the five-gallon bucket, filled it with warm water at the utility sink, and placed it on the concrete floor. Normally, he would’ve placed it in front of the La-Z-Boy, sitting down to rest his left leg. He grabbed another five-gallon bucket nearby, flipped it over, and sat with his plaster-covered tools.

  “I’m ready to answer any questions, sir.”

  “Sir, huh?” Detective Eastman said, smiling again. “You military like your father?”

  “No, sir. Just how I was raised.” Eric crouched over the bucket and dunked his drywall putty knives into the water, scrubbing them with a nylon brush.

  “Don’t care for authority figures?”

  Eric paused cleaning and looked up. “I wouldn’t say that. Just prefer to be my own boss.”

  “Your father was his own boss too, wasn’t he?”

  Eric dunked the knives again, brushing them harder than necessary. “Yes, sir, he worked for himself quite a bit when I was younger. Mostly labor work. He taught me a lot about how things work, how to fix them.”

  It was the only time Eric felt close to his father, working side-by-side, sweating together under the sun while planting seeds or crawling under a house to fix a leaky pipe.

  The detective leaned forward in the chair, his hands on his knees and his face serious. “And your father taught you other things too. Bad things, right?”