by May Cobb
Last summer, when we returned home from camp, Lucy got a string of letters from pen pals. All boys. Though we’re both tomboyish, Lucy’s always been more girlie than me, especially this past year—I’ve held onto my gawkiness longer than most. She’s just plain cuter, with her golden curls and almond-shaped caramel eyes, and she’s always got a flock of boys around her, even in grade school.
She was lying on her stomach in bed, her legs kicking lazily behind her, chewing bubblegum and reading the letters when I walked in. I was suddenly filled with jealousy and became irrationally mad at her. The only letters I ever got were from my bunkmate, Margaret, a nerdy girl who wears Coke bottle glasses and who is always citing scripture. I couldn’t stand it—this attention that Lucy always got from boys—so I started stomping around the room.
“What’s up your butt?” Lucy asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Nothing! But do you always have to smack your gum like that?”
“Sorry—”
“You’re SO gross, Lucy. Everyone is sick of you.” I started kicking at Lucy’s dirty clothes pile. “Just look how messy your room is. Mom’s gonna have a cow when she gets home.”
Lucy looked confused and hurt, like I’d just slapped her. “Le—”
“What?” I snapped. “I don’t even wanna BE here when she gets back.”
I pedaled off on my ten-speed, the warm air sucking at my damp shirt, and kept riding until I reached the nearest vacant lot. I threw my bike down and fell to the ground sobbing, hating myself for being so senselessly mean to Lucy.
I didn’t apologize to her or ever tell her why I was really upset; I was too ashamed. But as I’m lying here now in her bed, I start bargaining furiously with the universe: If you will let her come home, I will never be mean to her again.
When I finally did get my first boyfriend, Scott, just this past summer, I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Hanging out with a boy was like hanging out with a girl, but you’re just more aware of what your hair looks like, what your clothes look like—you wouldn’t wear your headgear in front of a boy—you see everything through their eyes.
Scott’s a soccer player, a year ahead of me, handsome in a traditional way with wavy blond hair and hazel eyes. At first, I couldn’t believe he asked me to be his girlfriend. My new friend, Ali Sherman, is girlfriends with Scott’s best friend, Brett, so I figured it was just out of convenience that he had asked me, but honestly, I didn’t care. I was just happy to finally have a boyfriend, someone’s name I could scribble on my book covers.
Scott’s dad is an orthodontist and his mom is one of those perky moms always trotting out cookies or brownies and smiling constantly. She still cuts the corners off of Scott’s toast and embarrasses him by calling him Scottie.
Scottie. I can still hear his name in Lucy’s giddy voice. She liked him, and used to run around the house teasing me, saying with a mouthful of giggles, “Leeeuh’s gonna marry Scot-teee!”
The rain has let up. I get out of bed and walk to the window and look out over the backyard. The sky is a gray cloak pushing down, but just above the clearing in the woods where Lucy and I play, the sun has started to crack through. The ground there is a carpet of red leaves, matted down by the rain, but the sun is now trickling down a halo of yellow light. My eyes fixate on this spot, and something about it sends a shiver up my spine.
16
Sylvia
There are no straight roads through Big Woods. It’s hard to tell where you are and where you’ve been once you start driving into it. The roads are narrow and twisty, the sunlight snuffed out by the trees. Some of the street signs have been knocked clean off; others dangle from their metal rusty poles like loose teeth, so it can feel disorienting, like you’re driving through a maze.
After the children’s bodies were found, I drove out there; I had to see it for myself. I had never been out there, never had a reason to go out there, and didn’t know all that much about it.
As best I could tell, half of it is in one county and half of it is in another. Oil and gas leases make up most of the area, but there is also private land with long driveways that wind through thick brambles. Some have mailboxes and others just have threatening signs tacked onto trees that say things like No Trespassing: We Don’t Dial 911.
And who knows who actually owns what piece of land. It’s just a tangled net of forest that stretches between Starrville and Longview, pulling the two towns together.
There was that single article in the paper—Is Big Woods a Haven for Devil Worshippers?—but other than that, the police didn’t release much information about where the bodies were found.
The day I went out there was in summer. I parked next to a gas well and started walking through a scorched field. Locusts scattered in the fried grass; their buzzing gave me chills. I tried to imagine where the bodies could’ve been found, but it’s twenty thousand acres deep and when I heard the low rumble of a truck pass by not once, but twice, I ran as fast as I could back to my station wagon. My heart was hammering as I fumbled with the keys, but I managed to get inside and slam down the beige lock.
17
Leah
Saturday, October 14th, 1989
Lucy missing 2 weeks, 1 day
A cold front blew in today, tossing up the unraked leaves in our yard. The sun is setting and Dad’s built us a fire—the first one of the season. We’re in the back den, huddled around the television, watching reruns of Dallas.
I can’t keep warm (our big old house is drafty) so I’ve pulled a blanket around my shoulders, and Mom has brought me some hot chocolate. I cup it in my cold hands and stare into the mug and watch as the top layer of mini-marshmallows bob and dissolve into the chocolate. Mom and Dad are sipping brandy and for a moment, I forget. For a moment, things almost seem normal. But then there’s a loud knock at the door.
We all jump up and rush to the front of the house. It’s the sheriff. My stomach does flips. Dad shows him into the front parlor and then motions for me to go elsewhere so they can talk.
“It’s okay,” Sheriff Greene says. His voice is thick. He looks at each of us and clears his throat. “Leah needs to hear this, too.” He looks up at my parents. “We may have a lead.”
A knife twists in my gut.
“I know this might sound crazy, but a psychic lady is claiming that she knows where Lucy is. She says that she keeps having visions of a little blond girl next to a creek.”
Mom’s eyes go wide and Dad starts quickly nodding as if he wants the sheriff to hurry up and spit out the rest.
“She’s been talking to us for the past three days and we think we’ve finally narrowed down the location. She’s helped us in the past,” he says, turning up his palms and shrugging.
“Is she alive?” I ask, my voice a screech, the words spilling out before I even realize it. Mom and Dad both look at me and then look back to the sheriff.
“Well, sometimes she can tell and sometimes she can’t. And, unfortunately, this is one of the times that she can’t,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits. “She says she sees her sleeping, but that’s it, that’s all she can see.”
“Where … ” my father stammers. “Where does she think our Lucy is?”
“Well, we can’t say for certain, this isn’t an exact science, mind you, but the location she’s describing sounds like it’s at Caney Creek, near Kilgore. Near a little white church in the woods. So we’ll look there first.”
The sheriff starts shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “We are going out there in the morning, first light. And this psychic, she thinks it would be helpful if y’all would come along, too.” He looks up at us sheepishly.
“Yes, of course, Tommy,” Mom says, pulling her robe tighter around herself.
“Good. Meet me at the station at seven, and y’all can ride in the cruiser with me.”
Blood is roaring in my ears and I can’t make out the rest of what is being said. The sheriff leaves and I follow Mom and Dad back to the den, trailing behind them with my head spinning.
Dad flips off the television and we sit in the dark. The fire is starting to go out. It’s trying to cough and spit its way back to life, but Dad lets it smolder and die down. My hot chocolate goes cold. I can’t finish it. I leave Mom and Dad and go upstairs. I climb in bed and even though it’s nowhere near bedtime, I want to sleep. I want to wake up and have it be morning and for us to go and find Lucy.
18
Sylvia
I remember my first day at the hospital. I parked in the employee parking lot and walked up to the peach brick building. I was issued a crisp white time card and was excited to punch it for the first time. I was promptly introduced to Dr. Sloane, the OB/GYN who I would work under for years. He was a kindly man. They wouldn’t all be.
We were in the Labor and Delivery ward. I was not a delivery nurse; I was in charge of helping the mothers just after labor, when they were settled into their rooms with their tiny, screaming newborns. I would wash their faces, help them to the restroom, and bring them their meds.
I took to it right away—it was like a second skin, like I knew exactly what to do. And after attending to the new mothers for even just a few nights, they began to feel like daughters to me. Some were in their glory, others were startled and frightened, and if it worried me, I would jot down my home number for them. Most of the fathers were perplexed, but I would say to each of the women, loud enough for the men to hear (whether it was the case or not), “You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re a natural.”
Sometimes, if I could tell the families didn’t have much, I would slip them extra samples of formula or give them a small care package of things I had assembled at home from odds and ends: blankets, pacifiers, and diapers. I would try to do extra little things, like bring in baked goods, or in the summer, fresh fruit. You weren’t supposed to, but I did it anyway and I hope it brought them some comfort.
And of course, when I could tell that the new mothers needed rest, I would lift their baby from them and take them to the nursery, whispering blessings over them as I carried them down the hall.
When the mothers would have cesarean births, they would stay with me even longer, and this was the case with Roz Spencer. I only worked the delivery ward on weekends by then, but I could tell right away that she was the type who was used to doing everything, and even after the C-section, she still had a flurry of commanding energy about her, a strong, capable presence. I met her husband, too, a darkly handsome man who I could tell had a good heart. They mostly kept to themselves but during the night while he was sleeping and she was in the throes of pain from trying to nurse, she’d have me keep a cool washcloth over her forehead and she’d ask me to tell her stories about my childhood, about my time on the farm in Iowa.
When it was time for Roz to be released, I was sad to see them go, but I knew that the little girl was going home to a blessed life.
I wasn’t working by the time Lucy was born, but I saw her birth announcement in the paper; this was back when folks still did that sort of thing.
Years later I saw the three of them together at the supermarket. The older one, Leah, was pushing Lucy in the stroller while Roz was picking out tomatoes. I’m not sure if Roz recognized me, but she smiled when she saw me and gave me a little nod.
I don’t think she’d recognize me now, now that I’ve let myself go, and I’ve always hoped and prayed that she didn’t recognize me in that TV clip. My hair was white by then—frazzled and stringy and whipped by up the wind—and I looked like a disheveled mad woman standing there in front of the police station. There was a cascade of people swarming around me shouting in the background, and the reporter got knocked over so that the footage of me looks even more chaotic.
They didn’t name me by name, thank goodness, but the local news station played that clip of me over and over again for what felt like weeks. I’d wince every time it flashed on the screen, and would want to plug my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear my own voice, high and shrill, making the bold statement that would have me shunned.
19
Leah
Sunday, October 15th, 1989
Lucy missing 2 weeks, 2 days
The creek is swift today from all the rain. I’ve crossed over it before and it’s usually clear and calm, but today it’s boiling, a tan and foaming mudslide. The banks are high and tree roots jut out of the rust-colored clay, threading over the creek and catching debris.
My Keds are grass-stained and soaked through. I’m shaking, it’s so cold; I should’ve worn my boots and a heavier coat. Sticker burrs grab at my ankles but I’ve given up on bending down and plucking them off.
We got to the station early this morning, at six thirty, but everyone was already there waiting for us on the steps outside. When I got out of the car, I could feel a charge in the air, a buzz running through the group, all nervous energy and excitement.
The psychic was standing on the bottom step. She introduced herself as Carla Ray. She looked to be in her late forties with lanky brown hair that dropped to her waist. When she stuck out her arm to shake hands with my parents, her tiny wrist reminded me of a stick doll’s. She was wearing smoke-tinted glasses and a long necklace with a chunky rock. I held out my hand to greet her, but to my surprise she grabbed me into a tight hug. She smelled like talcum powder and rose perfume, and she hugged me hard, as if she were trying to take something from me.
The sheriff came over and cleared his throat, breaking up the embrace and announcing it was time to head out. Dad rode up front with Sheriff Greene and Mom and I climbed in the back. His cruiser was a warm oven. The seats were old, cracking leather that smelled stale, but it was neat and tidy and I noticed an air freshener pinned to our back vent that pushed out an aroma like Big Red gum.
The ride out to the creek was so smooth, it felt like we were almost gliding. We pulled into a muddy field and when I stepped out of the car, it didn’t feel real to me. It felt like I was watching us all on television.
A heavy-set officer in a tan uniform hurried across the field to us. He had thinning red hair and was breathing hard by the time he reached us, his glasses fogged over from the effort.
“Pleasure to meet y’all,” he said, grinning at us expectantly. “I’m Sheriff Randy Meeks. My fellows and I thought we’d come out here to help.” He nodded to each of us, and when Dad offered to shake his hand, Sheriff Meeks took it and clapped Dad on the back as if they were getting ready to watch a football game together.
“Sheriff Meeks is with the Starrville Police Department,” Sheriff Greene explained. “Some men from the Kilgore force are out here as well.”
We’ve been here for half an hour. We’re walking side by side with Sheriff Greene. Just up ahead a cluster of officers and volunteers are fanning out in different directions with packs of search dogs. Carla Ray is up front, leading the way, making hand gestures and sometimes pausing to look up at the milky-white sky. We walk along the creek and my eyes stay focused there, watching it gurgle and spit up trash and faded beer cans.
We reach the small church and Carla has us all circle it a few times. She’s standing on the north side, looking up at a stained glass window when a dog starts panting, then barking, then the rest of the dogs chime in with angry barks before bursting off toward the woods. The sheriff holds us back and lets Carla lead the officers into the woods first, her ropy brown hair swinging behind her like a pendulum. My heart is punching against my chest, a staccato, and I feel dizzy as we wait.
A few moments later an officer comes out of the woods holding up a blue converse sneaker, but it’s too big to be Lucy’s. It’s a boy’s shoe, a teenager’s. They bag it up anyway and we continue milling around until I see Carla Ray shaking her head while she’s talking to an officer. The sher
iff breaks away from us to go and talk to her.
After a moment we all walk back to the cruiser. Dad opens the door for me and shuts it and walks to the front but Mom calls for him, motioning for him to come over to where she and Sheriff Greene are talking.
I see Mom light a cigarette and I see her arms flail up and down in exasperation. I can’t hear them over the engine, but I hear the words fucking and quack shoot out of Mom’s mouth. She can be astoundingly direct sometimes, and I see Sheriff Greene slump down in reaction to her words and stare hard at the ground, frowning and quickly nodding. Dad looks crestfallen.
They walk back to the car and Mom slides next to me in the backseat. Her mouth is a tight line and she squeezes my hand as she explains, “The psychic lady is saying that she is certain this is where she claims she saw Lucy, but now she’s saying that Lucy’s not here anymore.”
I lean into Mom and rest my head on her amber fur coat and let the tears spill down my cheeks as we drive back to the station.
20
Sylvia
I got the call about John at nine a.m. on a Monday morning. Poof. He was gone. No warning. I had just finished working the night shift and had stepped inside the house to fix myself a ham sandwich. I was just about to take the first bite when the phone rang.
It was Jeanie, his secretary. I couldn’t make out most of the words from the roaring in my ears, just these: heart attack, paramedics did everything they could, he didn’t suffer. My head was a blur. I ended the call and sat there with the phone cradled in my hands for the longest time before heading back up to the hospital where they were taking his body.
