Big Woods
Page 11
I knew the leader’s name was Rain. He was tall, Nick tall, and had long platinum-blond hair with black streaks in it and a handsome but tough face. His girlfriend was Sara, a severe-looking girl with deep purple lipstick and short, blunt bangs. She was petite but looked like she could slit your throat with one of her long black fingernails, and always hovering nearby was her best friend, Jess, tall and thin and frail-looking with clear blue eyes smudged with thick charcoal eyeliner.
I was watching them, staring at Rain in particular, when I saw Nick walk up to him and they gave each other a high five. Nick bummed a cigarette off them and followed them upstairs to the balcony. I didn’t want him to see me staring at him so I looked over at Nicolette, who was still grinding on the dance floor. I kept glancing upstairs to see what they were doing, but they were just huddled, probably eight of them, in a corner.
Nicolette came up and bumped me on the hip, making me jump. “Hey! Having fun?” I could smell more alcohol on her breath.
I nodded and tried to look chipper. “Is Nick friends with the Wavers?” I shouted in her ear.
She shrugged. “He’s been hanging out with them lately. Drives Angie crazy,” she said and pulled me onto the dance floor. It was New Order, “Bizarre Love Triangle,” and I made a good show of dancing, but I just wanted to get back to her house so we could talk. I wanted to get to Lucy.
We got home sometime after midnight. I followed Nicolette to the kitchen, where she groped around for snacks. She grabbed a bag of chips and we headed up to her room. We sat cross-legged on her wrought-iron daybed, sharing the chips until they were all gone. She shook the crumbs off the comforter and then clicked off the lights and gave me a pillow. She was too groggy to pull out the trundle, so we lay curled up on our sides, facing out the window. The moon was bright, the color of wheat, and I began to tell her everything about Lucy. As I was talking, she wrapped her arm around me. I even told her about the bracelet, and guided her hand to it.
“You believe me, don’t you?” I asked.
“Course I do,” she said in a lazy voice. She had continued drinking at the club—Damien had spiked their Cokes all night with Jack Daniels—and I could smell the whisky on her. I couldn’t tell if she was really even awake, but I kept talking about Lucy, about Big Woods. It felt good just to spill my guts to her.
“Do you think the Wavers are dangerous? Do you think … do you think they’re a cult? Like Ali thinks? That they’re devil worshippers?” I asked, my voice turning shrill. I felt her twitch and begin to snore and I knew she was asleep.
45
Sylvia
Monday, November 13th, 1989
This morning after breakfast, I step outside to check the temperature. The sun is bright and warm, but the air is so chilly that it stings my bare wrist. I stare out over my yard and look at the tall domes of ruby and burnt copper gold leaves. This weekend I had a rare burst of energy, so I spent the morning raking but afterward I didn’t have the strength to bag them all up. So I’ve left them there; I’ll probably never get around to it.
And today, I have something else to do.
The wind picks up and plucks through my wind chimes, causing them to tink, and the tops of the leaf piles to get swept away. I wrap my robe tighter around me and go back inside and shut the door.
I climb the stairs to my spare closet on the second floor and run my fingers along the selection of clothes. I settle on a respectable pistachio green pant suit that I haven’t worn in ages, and take it down from the rack. It’s still in its wrapper from the cleaners and when I peel back the plastic it smells powdery and musty, but it’ll have to do. I go to my room and pull out a black turtleneck from my mahogany dresser—the drawer catches and I have to bump it with my hip, cursing it for the millionth time. I select a pair of matching black shoes with thick socks. I put on a little lipstick, pull my hair back in a bun, and get dressed to leave.
St. Mark’s Episcopal School sits high on a hill in a pretty neighborhood speckled with old homes so that it feels like its own quaint village. I arrive just before lunch, and park in the visitor’s parking space. The school is all done up for fall and Halloween: in the front yard under a soaring oak tree, mountains of pumpkins are hemmed in by hay bales for a makeshift pumpkin patch. The tall classroom windows are plastered with paper leaves in deep jewel tones of red and green, and parked on either side of the front door are two tawny scarecrows, greeting those who walk past. Giant jack-o-lanterns line the ornate stone path leading up to the school and the whole scene is so picturesque that for a moment, I forget why I’ve come here, and what it is I’ve come to do.
I walk slowly along the cobblestone path to the entryway; the stones are so well-worn that their tops are smooth and slick like polished rock. A nearby church bell clangs, signaling that it’s half-past the hour and a squirrel scurries past, nearly tripping me, and fetches a fat acorn that rolls near my feet.
I walk past the scarecrows, pause at the heavy glass doors, and take a deep breath before pushing them open.
Inside, the school is cozy and smells of cinnamon. A cornucopia of fall potpourri—pinecones, dried holly branches, rosemary, and cinnamon sticks—is splayed out over the receptionist’s desk. She’s a tiny, stout woman with a tight, graying perm and gold glasses.
“May I help you?” she asks, smiling.
“I’m here to see Principal Spencer,” I say.
“I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting.”
My heart sinks; I know I won’t have the courage to come up here again. I’m just turning to leave when the receptionist asks, “But would you like to wait in her office? She shouldn’t be much longer.”
I follow her down the hall to Roz’s office and it occurs to me that she didn’t even ask me my name. She must assume I’m an old friend or relative—and probably harmless because of my white hair—but it disturbs me just how trusting people can be.
Her office is lovely. Homey yet professional and crisp at the same time. One wall is a sheet of glass that looks out over a lush courtyard with drooping, ancient crepe myrtles and monstrous hanging ferns. On the opposite wall, Roz has hung a giant wall calendar that features the paintings of Claude Monet, which seem to echo the tranquil garden outside. For each day, she has filled in an exacting schedule, color-coded in red, blue, and black ink by topic: Admin., Teachers, Students. There are thank-you notes from parents and graduates gone off to college taped around the calendar, with pictures of Roz and each graduating class in order by year from floor to ceiling.
But it’s the wall behind her desk that threatens to pierce my composure: it’s her family wall, and there are framed pictures of Leah and Lucy. Leah and Lucy dressed in their Easter bonnets when they were little. Leah and Lucy at summer camp. A family portrait with Roz and her husband and the two girls, all dressed up, posed in front of a wooded lake scene. And what breaks my heart most of all is how Roz has carefully framed her girls’ best works of art. A giraffe painted creatively to look like a zebra from a 4th grade Leah, a homemade Valentine “for my familee, luv Lucy Belle!”, and most gut-wrenching of all, a picture that Lucy drew when she was four—a giant face that has freckles, red spots, and a dot, that she titled, “Freckles, Belly Button, and Hurt.” My eyes are roving all over this wall and I’m lost in reverie when the door opens behind me, and before I know it I’m on my feet and shaking hands with Roz.
“Hi, please keep your seat,” Roz says and disappears behind her giant pine desk that the midday sun has turned the color of weak tea. She’s dressed in a smart black suit but looks smaller than I remember, more diminished.
“Do I know you?” she asks, and I see a flicker of recognition cross her face—maybe she saw me on television—and so I quickly say, “I was your nurse. When Leah was born.”
“Oh! That is you! Of course!” She smiles and takes off her glasses. The edges of her eyes are lined with crow’s feet. “What can I do for you?”
The corners of her mouth tighten and she lets out a heavy sigh.
“I … I may have some information for you,” I say. She just tilts her head and stares straight ahead at me, her mouth a rigid line. I can feel the edges of her weary impatience, so I rush in and quickly fill the gap of silence.
“After I left the Labor and Delivery Ward,” I say, “I worked for many years as a nurse in the Psychiatric Unit. And there was a woman who came to us one night. She had been held captive by the Starrville Police. The sheriff, and some other powerful men in Starrville, were operating an elaborate sex ring, and—”
“I’m sorry,” Roz interrupts, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “but what does any of this have to do with my daughter?”
“Well, the woman told me that sometimes there were children present,” I say, fumbling around and suddenly feeling like the lunatic she perceives me to be. “And I went to the police here and tried to tell them about it but they wouldn’t believe me, but I just know that these same men—”
But before I can finish Roz has put her hand up for me to stop talking. “I’m sorry, Mrs. … what was your name again?” Roz asks, the principal in her coming out and suddenly I feel foolish for coming up here, for approaching her like this, at school, out of the blue.
“Mrs. Parker. Sylvia, Sylvia Parker,” I stammer. “I know what I saw happened years ago, but I believe these men are still active and—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker, but I can’t take this. I can’t listen one second longer. I’m trying to hold onto what little peace in life I’ve found and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“But if you’ll just hear me out, I promise I’m not making this up,” I try, one last plea, but she’s now on her feet, glasses back on, and she crosses the room to open the door without another word.
I walk out of her office meekly, with my head down, tears forming in the corner of my eyes. I’m so embarrassed I don’t even say goodbye to the cheery receptionist as she calls out after me.
Inside the station wagon, my face burns. I’m furious with myself for bungling this. I back out of the parking lot and drive away, feeling sadness and shame blistering over me.
46
Leah
Monday, November 13th, 1989
Lucy missing 6 weeks, 3 days
I went to Big Woods again tonight. I still can’t believe it, that I was out there just a few hours ago. My mind is still racing, trying to process everything I saw. I’m writing in my diary with the covers pulled up over me, my flashlight wedged between my neck and shoulder so Mom and Dad won’t see my light still on. I don’t want to have to deal with them anymore tonight.
Yesterday just before lunchtime, Mrs. Rossi gave me a ride home. I asked her to let me out a few houses down so that I could walk the rest of the way—she didn’t press me with any questions. When I walked through the door, I didn’t mention anything about not spending the night at Ali’s, and when Mom asked me how it was I just shrugged and said nonchalantly, “Okay, I guess,” and went upstairs.
A few hours later the phone rang. Mom answered it and shouted up to me in a chipper voice, “Honey! It’s Nicolette!” She sounded so happily surprised that my social life seemed to be returning to normal. All my lying was starting to make me feel guilty.
“Hey,” I said, in a low voice.
“Hey! Ummm, did your Mom hang up?” Nicolette asked. I had heard the phone click, but told Nicolette I would call her right back just to be on the safe side. She answered on the first ring. “So, I overheard Nick talking on the phone to someone about a party tomorrow night in Big Woods. With the Wavers.”
My stomach clenched into a knot.
“I know it’s a Monday, but apparently they have one every time there’s a full moon.”
“Nicolette, we have to go,” I said in a deadpan voice.
“I know, I know. I threatened to tell Mom and Dad about it if he didn’t take us along.”
My palms were sweaty and tears flooded my eyes. I was scared, but so happy. “So you were awake? You heard what I was telling you last night?” I said, through a stream of snot and tears.
“I heard enough of it, anyway. I never thought you were gonna shut up,” she said, trying to make me laugh like she always does when I’m crying. It worked—I snorted out a honking laugh and wiped my nose with my sleeve.
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“You’re gonna have to sneak out. The party’s late. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll pick you up at nine. Gotta run,” she said and blew me a kiss over the phone.
I pressed the pink button down to end the call and sat there, cradling the phone in my hands.
It was surprisingly easy to slip out. Mom and Dad were upstairs in bed watching television by eight thirty, so I went into their room and kissed them goodnight. I tiptoed down the stairs, disarmed the burglar alarm, and walked down the drive. The night was clear and cold and I sat on the curb—which glowed fluorescent white from the full moon—and waited for them to pick me up.
Nick pulled up in his 1977 maroon Camaro (I know the stats because he talked about that car endlessly from the time he was twelve until his parents bought it for him on his sixteenth birthday). He leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. Cigarette smoke spilled out of the car. I climbed in and it was toasty. Nicolette was in the back seat with Damien, who leaned forward and passed me a peach wine cooler. I took a swig. It didn’t taste bad, so I took another sip, letting the sweet, scorching taste warm the back of my throat. Nick put the car in neutral and we coasted down the hill before he started it back up and sped away.
He had the new INXS tape blaring and the windows were cracked, making my hair whip in my face. I looked over at him and noticed how handsome he looked—the red cherry from his cigarette made his olive skin glow—but even with the alcohol and the music (what would have otherwise been a fun night) my stomach was in knots and my mind was consumed with getting to Lucy.
As we got closer to Big Woods, the streetlights started to fade and the road became darker. Nick turned down an unmarked road that I’d never seen before and killed the lights. The moon was bright enough to see by, but he made a few more turns and I couldn’t understand how he knew where he was going, but then it hit me: he’d been here before. He slowed the car and rolled down the windows, flinging out his cigarette before turning down a gravel road. We passed by a gas well that see-sawed in the moonlight. I could hear music, I could feel a thumping techno beat vibrating in my chest. Nick drove around the gas well and then went down an even smaller road, the front of his car bumping and hitting potholes as his gears grinded until I saw a long, glittering row of parked cars ahead of us.
We piled out of the car and followed Nick down the muddy path toward a clearing in the distance. I could see smoke from a fire and the music was so loud that talking to each other was pointless. As we got closer I could hear the lyrics. It was Nine Inch Nails and Trent Reznor was growling about being sanctified. When we made it to the clearing, the breath got sucked out of me. There was a large circle of huge stones—boulders so big they reminded me of Stonehenge—and in the middle of the circle was a massive bonfire. About thirty older teenagers were dancing around the fire as if in a trance. Some wore masks, some were dressed in dark capes, and there were red candles lit in front of each stone, sputtering red wax over heaps of dried flowers. In the corner was a DJ, a guy I recognized from school. I didn’t know his name but he ran with the heavy metal crowd, and he was wearing a ripped up Megadeath t-shirt with big chunky combat boots. Next to his booth was a make-shift stage made from old, rotted wood. In the center of the stage was an odd-looking throne made from the same chalk-white stones that formed the circle, and spray-painted on the head of it in black was a skull-and-cros
s bones.
Nick wandered off and Nicolette leaned in and whisper-shouted, “This is so bizarre. Let’s just try to act like we belong.” She passed me a can of Keystone Light and I slugged some back, trying to look cool, but I choked and the yeasty foam sprayed down the corners of my mouth. She handed me a lit cigarette and I pretended to smoke it and look vaguely pissed off.
The full moon was orange and through the haze of alcohol and the smoke from the fire, it looked like a giant, melting dreamsicle. The DJ put on a slower, chant-like song that I didn’t know and everyone started swaying to it—some of the kids had their hands clasped together like they were praying and some coupled off and started making out with each other. I spotted Nick across the bonfire talking to Rain and Sara and Jess. Rain was wearing a black mask, and the girls were wearing long, flowy, black capes with hoods on. I watched as Jess reached up and grabbed the back of Nick’s head and started kissing him. My cheeks burned.
Just then Rain leapt onto the stage and ran his hand under his throat, giving the DJ the signal to kill the music. He was wearing a long black trench coat and leather bracelets with spikes. He grabbed the microphone and shouted, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared back.
“Are you ready, I said!” he howled into the microphone, splitting my ears.
The crowd erupted, and he threw the microphone down and gave the DJ the thumbs up. Strobe lights started flashing everywhere and I felt disoriented—I was trying to keep an eye on everything but it was hard with the pulsing lights. Some of the teenagers started racing around the bonfire, scattering dust and waving sparklers. The song started playing and it was some kind of synth song I had never heard before, with a demented voice shouting about Jesus.
Rain was onstage lip-synching to it and the crowd was shouting out the rest of the lyrics, which were all about the devil. The song then had all this maniacal laughing on it and Rain ripped off his mask and looked out over the crowd, smiling. His eyes were roving all over the crowd and when he spotted me, he stopped singing and just stared at me, holding my eyes for a moment. A shiver ran up my back and I had to look away.