by Cathy Lamb
Rozlyn decided to “take drastic dating action,” track down Leonard, and ask him out.
Eudora, Rozlyn, and I engaged in high-level surveillance. Okay, we sat in Eudora’s car and watched Leonard leave work while we ate a box of chocolates, then we followed him in the car and watched him go into a grocery store.
Eudora said, “Don’t even attempt a spying maneuver in there, Rozlyn. You are a poor spy.”
“Go get ’em.” I turned her toward me, fluffed out her hair, handed her a lipstick, and undid a button on her shirt. She yanked her bra straps up so the girls were higher, said, “This is it. Porno boobs don’t fail me now,” and out she went.
Rozlyn came out a half an hour later and proudly announced that she had spoken with Leonard, had not had a hot flash, and had asked him out to dinner.
“What was the target’s response?” Eudora asked. “Affirmative?”
“He said yes.”
We cheered and clapped.
“I’m going to get one more tube of that anti-dry vagina cream, in case I get lucky beyond lucky.”
“That’s three tubes, Roz,” I said.
“It’s best to always be prepared,” Eudora said, waving a finger. “For all contingencies.”
“To the pharmacy we go!” Rozlyn said. “I’m living life, every second of it, and I want it smooth and orgasmic.”
Cherie Poitras rammed through my divorce.
Covey caved.
She sent me flowers with this card: “Another dirt-eating husband bites the dust.”
Covey’s lawyers, Skiller and Goldman, who let me go to jail knowing that I had done nothing wrong, who never told Dale that I was innocent, or told Covey to do so, were disbarred for a previous case they worked on for Covey for misconduct and misrepresentation and other legalese I didn’t understand but it all spelled one thing: Ya can’t practice law anymore, suckers! Say good-bye to the fancy houses!
Millie called me. Covey pled guilty. He was headed to jail for eighty-four months. I wondered if he would meet up with a Neanderthal Man. When he was released from jail he would pay back the victims for the rest of his life.
That made me laugh.
I decided not to think about him again, ever.
Deleted.
I worked on a collage in one of Kade’s empty upstairs bedrooms, on a cool Sunday morning, when Kade was fishing with Ricki Lopez and Danny Vetti. Kade had helped me bring over a few canvases, paints, and my trinkets. It felt . . . sweet.
That was the word for it—sweet. Kade wanted me at his house, wanted me doing my art, even if he wasn’t there. “I like thinking of you here, Grenady,” he said, hugging me close, bearlike. “If I’m at work, if I’m skiing or fishing, I like knowing you’re here. It makes me happy. You fit here.”
It was a pretty romantic setup. I would be painting or collag-ing in “Wild Woman’s studio,” as Kade dubbed it, and he would be sitting at one of the long wood tables he brought in for me, working. We would talk now and then, or listen to country music, sometimes we’d stop and have fun in a naked sort of way, then I’d get back to painting, and try to ignore him kissing my neck or exploring my curves and saying, “Let’s take a nap, Artist Lady.”
That day I was working on a five-by-three-foot canvas. I had turned it vertically and painted a tree using my favorite sculpted butter-type paint. I painted the trunk brown, and twisty, like a tree candy cane, then let the purple and red flowers burst above. The thick paint lifted the flowers up, like butterfly wings.
I would put a glass bead in the center of the flowers and spray the edges of the painting with a light dusting of gold. At the base of the tree I would paint Cleo, with her pink cowboy hat, striped tights, and her favorite outfit: a yellow dress with a tree on it with purple and red flowers and a twisty trunk.
I would paint Rozlyn beside her, in her long Mexican-styled skirt and red shirt and cowboy boots, Liddy in the background with her flowered hat. I would add one of Rozlyn’s women-power quilts hanging from a tree branch, using scraps of fabric.
Rozlyn and Cleo would love it. I felt teary thinking of Rozlyn, but I made myself concentrate on making the best collage for her I possibly could.
Rozlyn’s dinner date with Leonard had gone well. So had the second one. She told him about her health issues. He was not scared off by them. He was a tall, gangly, smart man who knew how to brave life.
Hours later I went downstairs to make coffee. Two weeks after all the charges were dropped against me, I quit working at Tildy’s. I couldn’t work both jobs anymore. It was killing me, plus I had my money back. I felt bad about it, though, I truly did. She had hired me when I was desperate and treated me well. Tildy hugged me. “You’re the best bartender I’ve ever had.”
Kade and I broke his rules about his never, ever dating an employee. I kept working for him in sales. I also sketched out more plans for rocking chairs, and we worked together on a line of painted furniture. He made me sign a contract where we would split profits for the rocking chairs and furniture. I told him it was unnecessary, this could be part of my job description, but he refused to make the furniture unless I signed it. I signed it, then we made love on his leather couch in front of the fireplace.
He built the dresser or table or sideboard or armoire, then I showed him the plan for the carvings—blue-haired mermaids or zebras dancing or moose playing poker in the woods—he carved it, I painted it. The furniture was called Grenadine’s Designs.
At work we were as professional as we could be, but it was hard to hide that love.
We knew the gig was up when someone cut a huge heart out of wood, painted it red, wrote “Kade ’n Grenady,” and hung it in the employee room next to my mural of the mountains.
Kade laughed and kissed me.
I blushed.
Everyone clapped.
As the coffee machine hummed, and those blue and purple mountains glowed in the distance, I picked up the newspaper Kade left on the table. When my coffee was made, my whipping cream sin poured in, I sat down at the kitchen table.
I read the headline about the man on death row. I had shied away from it, but this time I read it. The article covered a two-page spread, as his time to be executed was near. His crimes were so hideous, I had to put my coffee down and close my eyes for a second. He had killed this couple, that man, that lady, another couple, two female teenagers, and had been caught only in the last few years. He hid the bodies.
I turned to the second page where pictures of him from previous years—personal photos it turned out, no mug shots—were printed in a line. He had led a “normal” life, with a wife and kid and a job and a bike before it was found that he was a serial killer.
I studied his face and curly brown hair in the first photo, then the second . . . and the third.
I felt chilled suddenly, from the inside out, and shaky, as if someone had wrapped me up in their iceberg arms and was squeezing the life out of me.
I knew that face. I knew it. The room tilted, and I couldn’t breathe. I saw towering, dark trees and fog. I saw a lighthouse.
Alice, My Anxiety, came roaring to the surface.
I focused on his name. Terrence “Bucky” Lancaster.
Bucky.
Two tattoos were mentioned: A woman’s face with the word “Mom,” and a hatchet. In my mind I saw another tattoo, a knife with a snake wrapped around it. I saw three miniature skulls on a necklace, too.
I looked in his black, hollow eyes.
I saw a red kite.
I looked at the scar on his chin, jagged like a snake.
I saw a dark forest enshrouded in fog.
I looked at that demented smile.
I saw a guitar, a tie-dye shirt.
I looked at his mouth, twisted.
I saw a red, crocheted shawl and a flowered skirt.
I looked at that huge forehead.
I saw a knife whip through the air.
I heard a scream, a guttural shout.
The knife made contact.
> I saw blood.
Run, Grenadine, run!
The floor came rushing up to meet my poor face, and I closed my eyes.
Run, Grenadine, run!
52
I did not want to be standing in front of the penitentiary, but I knew I had to be there.
My visit had been arranged by many people. I had initially called assistant U.S. attorney Dale Kotchik, not knowing who else to call, and he had taken it from there, involving those who needed to be involved, including the police and the FBI and a special task force that had been investigating Bucky.
I told them I remembered a tattoo of a knife with a snake around it. They had been surprised, as the description of that tattoo on Bucky’s right arm had not been released to the public. I told them about my red kite. They knew nothing about a red kite. I told them about the three skull necklaces he was wearing. They were surprised at this, too. That fact had not been released to the public, either, but each of Bucky’s victims had been buried with a skull necklace. He’d been wearing three when I saw him that night. Obviously he’d hoped I would be the third victim of the evening.
To see a prisoner on death row, you have to make an appointment. You have to be checked out and approved by the prison. You have to give them your social security number, your driver’s license, address, date of birth, etc. The prison has to approve the visit. The inmate has to approve the visit.
I could not wear suggestive clothing. No short skirts, no see-through clothing, no spaghetti straps, no bikini tops. It would have been funny if the whole thing wasn’t about murder. No denim. No gang clothing or camouflage. Gee. That wasn’t going to be a problem, either. No underwire bras, as that could set off the metal detector. No belts with metal.
I had to have ID, as did Kade.
The entrance to the death row visiting area is a beige–yellow cinder block outbuilding with brown trim. We went through a heavy metal door into a room with lockers for our personal items, a wood desk, and a bathroom, which I used and threw up in. There was a guard and our escorting, uniformed officers.
We signed in, showed our ID, and went through the metal detector before walking through a tiger run, a barred corridor that’s open to the outside, to the visiting area. There was another metal door and four visiting cubicles.
I had recognized Bucky, the younger Bucky, in the photographs in the newspaper. Maybe my mind had finally relaxed because I had Kade and felt safe. Maybe the trauma had finally worked itself out enough to open the door into my past. Maybe my collages finally helped me to answer the questions. Maybe there was enough detail in the article to trigger long-dead, violent, unspeakable memories.
But I remembered that we had met him at a festival. He sat with us when my dad was playing the guitar one afternoon. My mom and I danced as he played and sang. I remembered we went for a drive with Bucky because we decided to go to the beach to fly my red kite.
We started climbing up a hill as the sun started going down. I heard the waves. I smelled the salt. I saw two fishing boats out in the water. I remembered tall, dark trees, a swatch of fog, and a lighthouse. Bucky said we were going to fly my red kite in the dark; he knew a good place.
The rest is fuzzy, except I remembered angry words. I remembered my father swearing, shouting, my mother screaming. I remembered a fight, my father’s fists swinging, my mother leaping onto Bucky, and I remembered that knife.
That knife.
Slash, slash.
More screaming. My father falling backward, then getting back up. My mother sprawled on the ground, and struggling. Blood. Blood, blood.
My parents yelling at me, “Run, Grenadine, run!” And I did. I was six.
I had to talk to Bucky.
I wanted to know what happened to my family. Where they were buried. If he had known their real names. I wanted to know who I was, where I came from. That I was hoping a convicted serial killer would help me was like hoping I could catch a ride on a comet and drop myself onto Maui.
He had slashed away their lives. He had consigned me to being an orphan and the resulting disaster. He was soulless and cold.
He was a psychopath.
He was the only one who might know something.
I had to try.
I sat in front of Bucky, Kade beside me, the corded phone in my hand, a glass partition separating us, armed guards standing at attention.
Bucky was wearing a navy blue T-shirt and denim blue jeans stamped with OREGON DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS INMATE. His hair was in odd tufts, and he was bald in some places. The years had been harsh. He was wrinkled, stick thin, sagging. I still recognized him.
“I’m delighted you’re finally here, Grenadine Scotch Wild. Welcome! I knew you’d come.” He whistled an odd tune. “I’ve been writing nursery rhymes for you for years. I remember you. A poet never forgets.”
He grinned at me. A lopsided, twisted grin. His eyes rested on my breasts for long seconds, then back up to my eyes, back down to my breasts.
It was a power move. I knew it, he knew it. I felt Kade shift angrily beside me. Bucky’s eyes never once strayed to Kade. They stayed locked on mine.
“I remember you.” I felt Bucky’s evil like a black, curling force, pulling me toward him. There was nothing behind his eyes that was human. There was no warmth, no kindness. He was hollow, except for his evil.
“I wish I could shake your hand and give you a hug. Mmmm mmmm.” He moaned, then shook his head back and forth, as if in ecstasy. “You were a delectable child back then. Like your momma.” He smacked his lips. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, they’re in an earth oven.”
And there it was. The confirmation. He had done it. I wanted to kill him. Kade made a sound deep in his throat.
“Your momma was delicious.” Bucky pulled on his hair, and a few strands came out in his fingers. He grimaced, put them in his pocket, then giggled. “I tasted her before she was gone, up up up into the ethereal heavens with Him. You were three blind mice. See how you ran. I cut off their tails with a carving knife because I’m the farmer’s wife.”
My stomach churned like someone had put a stick in there and twirled it around. I thought of what he meant, and I wanted to cry for my poor mother. She was so young, so kind, so loving. And this monster . . .
Kade said, “Go to hell.”
Bucky ignored him.
“She looked like you, Grenadine Scotch Wild. You were, you are, your momma. The red hair, those bright green eyes, those lush lips, those high cheekbones. Sexy!” His eyes lingered on my breasts again. I wanted to cross my arms. It was like being attacked through glass. “She was little, too, short and curvy like you. I remember how heavy her breasts felt in my hands. It would be the same as how yours would feel.”
“You’re disgusting,” Kade said, jumping up and swearing.
I put my shaking hand on Kade’s thigh to make him sit down. I needed him to control himself so I could get what I needed.
Bucky laughed as if what Kade said was so funny he could barely control himself. He still did not look at Kade. “So I’ve been told, darling.”
“I want you to tell me what happened to my parents.”
“No can do. One, two, three, I’ll keep it all to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t have the time I wanted with you, Grenadine, and I’m mad about that. Mad!” His laughter abruptly stopped as his face tightened and flushed. “I like things wrapped up neat and tidy, tidy, tidy, and you ruined that for me. You were scared, so sweet, Little Miss Muffet. You were in a pink dress that day. Purple pants. Your mother had made you a crown of daisies. You were both wearing your crowns. Daisy people. Daisy girls. Daisies, daisies. I loved my daisies.”
I suddenly heard those soft, loving voices in my head.
Start from the beginning, walk him through it.
It was them.
Be brave, Grenadine. You can do this.
I stuck my chin up, but I was scared, the hysterical fear he had brought to me as a chil
d bubbling up. “We were in our bus with you.”
“Yes. Your parents’ bus. A hippie VW bus. Your dad bought it in Wyoming, he told me. For five hundred dollars cash. From a cowboy. Hee-haw. Cowboy! We took the bus to the ocean to frolic and skip and fly your red kite at night.” He made motions with his hands of frolicking. “It would be a pleasant day for all of us. My idea. Mine.”
“It wasn’t pleasant for any of us.”
He winked at me. “It almost was for me, but I didn’t get my gift. You ran away. I saw you fall, like Humpty-Dumpty, but your daddy hit me and I had to punch back with my knife. Did you hit your head that night? Did it crack like Humpty-Dumpty?”
Yes, it had. I’d had a concussion and I still had the scar. “Your gift?”
“You. You were my gift, Grenadine. You were a sexy child, mmm mmm!” He moaned again, as if he were eating a tasty steak. His tongue poked out and licked his lips. “Sexy. Like your momma. Your dad, he was a pain in the ass. Broke my nose. That’s why it’s busted, broken, cracked up. See?”
“Why did he break your nose?” I would keep calm until I had my answers. I would.
“He was trying to protect you and your mommy. Your momma.
Mom. Mother. Mommy. I stuck my knife into him and he kept coming at me, again and again. He kept punching me.”
“And you killed him.”
“Yes, I did. Blood here and there.” He threw his hands in the air and grinned maniacally. “Everywhere! Like a fountain!”
“And my mother?” A whimper escaped my lips. I shut them tight.
He sang, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . .”
“And my mother?” But I knew. I needed his confession. Out loud.
“Your daddy would have killed me with his bare hands for what I did later to your mom. Mother. Mommy. Ya la la la. Your mommy.”
“What did you do?”
