by May Cobb
One winter’s morning, while I was at home, I stepped outside the back door to gather a few logs to build a fire. Snow was just beginning to dust the ground. I brewed myself a pot of coffee and turned on the television and saw Sheriff Greene, in front of the court house, holding a press conference. Another child’s body had just been pulled from Big Woods.
There was something sincere in his face—his mustache had started to gray—and he was pleading for the community to come together, for anybody with any information to please step forward.
In the background, clamoring masses held signs that read DOWN WITH THE DEVIL WORSHIPPERS and BANISH SATAN FROM OUR TOWN.
I drained my coffee and changed out of my dingy clothes to head to the police station.
Maybe now, I thought, that there are children involved, Sheriff Greene will listen to me. I couldn’t live with myself any longer if I didn’t tell someone and also, I didn’t know who else to tell.
I pulled on my heavy winter coat and drove straight there. The steering wheel was a cold stone under my gloved hands, and I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
When I arrived, the sheriff had already slipped back inside. A television reporter was parked on the steps, interviewing people. The crowd was crazed by this point, and I tried to barge my way through to the front door, but the reporter—she must’ve pegged me for a family member of one of the victims—stopped me and waved the microphone in my face. “What do you think of the fact that the devil worshippers are behind this?” she asked.
As I stood there on the steps looking out over the heaving masses waving their signs, a boldness overtook me and I blurted out, my voice high and full of emotion, “All I know is that it isn’t the devil worshippers.” The words rushed out of me before I even knew what I was saying. “They know who they are, and they should be ashamed.”
The reporter cocked her head and looked at me as if I were insane. Her lip-glossed mouth fell open but she instinctively pulled the microphone away from me and swiveled around to find another person to interview.
I was just about to turn and try and fight my way back to the station doors when I saw a man step apart from the crowd. His eyes were trained on me; it was Hank. He just stood there staring at me, his eyes pressed in a smirk, as if he knew exactly what I was about to do. And I saw the recognition register darkly across his face. He knew I knew he was involved.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I left. I drove straight home from the police station. I was a coward. I don’t remember the drive home, I just remember going inside and feeling emptied out. I locked the door behind me and rattled two baby aspirin out of a bottle and swallowed them. I filled a tumbler with water and went upstairs to my room and got in bed.
The snow was coming down harder, and I remember hoping that the roads would ice over so that he wouldn’t be able to reach my house. I must’ve drifted off to sleep at some point, because just after midnight, I woke up, and all the lights in my room were still on. I was half sitting up in bed, still wearing my coat with the start of a crick pulling at my neck, and I crossed the room and peered around the curtains.
I saw the red taillights of a car smear past and was filled with dread that the roads appeared to be all clear. I sighed and changed into my pajamas and slipped back in bed, pulling a book off the shelf to read and try and quiet my mind.
Just before drifting back off into sleep, I heard a soft knock downstairs, at the back door. My feet hit the floor and I crept softly over to my window and peeked out the curtain but couldn’t see a car. The knocking continued. I didn’t go downstairs; I knew it was Hank. It was exactly like something he would do to torture me. My heart rattled in my chest and I just stayed up in my room, frozen with fear. The knocking finally stopped, but I stayed awake until daybreak and called Hattie in the morning just to hear a familiar voice.
“Saw you on the news, Sylv,” she said, and I winced, hoping that no one had seen me. “Are you crazy? They gonna kill you,” her voice hissed out the word kill.
“I know,” I said, and I meant it.
By afternoon, the snow was beginning to melt, and my nerves were shot from listening to the ping ping ping of melting ice turning to water and hitting the metal gutters just outside the kitchen, so I decided to brave a trip to the supermarket.
When I got home I heaved the grocery sacks on the counter and turned to lock the back door behind me. I hung my keys on the key hook and began unloading the groceries. I was bent down, stashing all the produce in the bottom drawer of the fridge when I heard a loud crash upstairs. My heart seized. I tiptoed over to the wall phone to dial 911 and was just lifting it off its cradle when I saw the neighbor’s enormous cat scurrying down the stairs. I blew out a long sigh of relief.
“Oh, it’s you! How did you get in here?” I asked the cat, my voice all warbly. He must’ve slipped in behind me, but I went around the house, checking all the rooms, just in case.
When I reached the second floor, in the spare bedroom, I saw where the cat had knocked over my antique pitcher, the pink porcelain in a heap on the floor like fine powder dust. I was just turning to leave to go fetch the broom when a cold breeze shot through the window, first billowing the delicate curtains out, then sucking them ghoulishly back through. I always kept the windows latched, but the lock on that one is painted over and won’t turn.
Like the soft knocking, it was Hank, I just knew it. This was his old room and he used to sneak out of this same window in high school. He was warning me, letting me know he was watching me, and that if I made a move, he’d kill me.
He’d kill me, and then the children would never be saved.
I stuck to going to routine places after that. I could never be certain about when he was watching me and when he wasn’t. And everybody in town seemed to treat me differently anyways.
One morning I was pulling a bag of spaghetti off a low shelf at the supermarket when I heard a group of women snickering behind me. When I looked over at them, they scattered, but I was certain they had been talking about me. Even the check-out lady with orange hair who used to ask about my day seemed to fix me with an icy stare as she slid the groceries across the scanner and tossed them, haphazardly, into sacks.
It was what I had said to that television reporter, I would soon learn. Even my minister started to treat me differently, as if I were a devil worshipper myself, or a witch. I know I might sound paranoid, but it seemed like the few people I came into contact with seemed to shrink away from me.
Everyone, that is, except for Hattie. So I slowly withdrew from my already quiet social life, only talking occasionally to my sister on the telephone. I even stopped going out to Hattie’s place, but she would call me regularly and drop by as often as she could. I shrunk into a tiny existence and lived in my own little world. And once the murders and kidnappings stopped, I thought I would be able to forget everything—I thought the rest of my days would unfold in this quiet, hushed way.
Until Lucy.
64
Leah
Saturday, December 16th, 1989
Lucy missing 11 weeks, 1 day
Last night I shook all the money out of Lucy’s teal ceramic piggy bank (thirty-four dollars in crumpled ones; she always squirreled away more than me) and now I am driving out to Billy’s.
I’m driving past vacant lots, the ground still sparkling white from the frost this morning, and I suck in sharp, stinging breaths of air. I lied to Mom. I told her Nicolette had invited me to watch Damien play soccer this morning, and begged her to let me drive myself to the game, and later, to spend the day at Nicolette’s. “Sure,” she said, “but straight there and back to Nicolette’s. And let me know if you’re not going to be home for supper.”
Just before I get to Billy’s Sound World, I pull over on the shoulder and apply pink lipstick and black eyeliner. I turn into the parking lot and see Billy leaning into his van, loading up. He sees me, flashes
a big smile, and waves. I strap my purse across my chest and walk toward him.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says, winking at me.
“Well, here I am!” I say awkwardly.
He’s toned and muscular and wearing faded jeans and a black Aerosmith t-shirt under a jean jacket. He locks the record store and we climb into the van. The van is dark and cold. There are no backseats, it’s just filled with crates of records and smells like an old ashtray. The seats are cracked leather and I fasten my seat belt. When he turns on the engine, icy cold air pumps through little black circles and I turn the vents away from me.
“Takes a while for it to warm up,” he says. He’s playing The Cult, and when we merge onto the interstate, he turns it up so loud that conversation is impossible. I’m grateful. I watch as he lights a cigarette and drains more coffee. His hands shake. He drums on the steering wheel and sings along to the music and I stare out the window and watch the pine trees line up and fall away like matchsticks.
After about an hour, when we reach Canton, Billy pops the top off a beer and passes it to me. It’s eleven thirty. I smile and take it, but just pretend to take sips from it. He ejects the tape and fiddles with the dial until he finds a classic rock station and I watch as he fishes out a joint from his visor. He lights it, takes a huge puff, and smelly clouds of marijuana fog over the car. He passes it to me, giving me a devilish grin. I shake my head no.
“I thought you’d want to party,” he says, disappointed.
“This beer is great!” I say and take a long swig to prove my worth. It tastes like warm metal and already makes my head swim. The trees thin to a flat nothing and we ride over the vacant, gray planes and I start to sway in time to the music in my seat, trying to look cool.
When we see the sign for Terrell, Billy turns on his signal, exits, and heads for the Dairy Palace. We are sitting in a long line at the drive-thru when he says, “I’m gonna order us a couple of cheeseburgers. You better eat up, not a lot of good places to eat around the convention, and certainly nothing good around the motel.”
“Ummm, what motel?” I ask, trying to sound calm but my heart starts to race. My armpits sweat and sting as dread washes over me.
“I got us a room at the Days Inn.”
“I thought we were just going up for the day?” I ask, trying to sound calm as a hot panic spreads over my body like a rash.
“Hell no. I don’t want to have to load in all this stuff and break it all down and turn around and drive back tomorrow!” He looks over at me; I stare straight ahead. “Chill, I got you your own bed.”
“Can I take your order?” an angry lady barks at us over the gravelly speaker.
Billy orders for us and I shift around in the filthy seat, turning to the window. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. I finger the lock on the door and consider hopping out and running, but we lurch forward in line and he grabs the food and soon we’re flying down the highway again.
I think about Mom and my stomach clenches. I feel so foolish for doing this. But then I think of Lucy, of seeing the psychic, and I vow to see it through, hoping I can call Mom later and tell her I’m spending the night with Nicolette.
I wolf down my cheeseburger and fries and am still finishing my milkshake when Billy hands me another beer. I take a few sips and then roll down the window, hoping the blast of fresh, cold air will keep me alert. Out of nowhere, the looming skyline of Dallas rises out of the flat earth and my stomach drops just seeing it. Suddenly we are in a sea of red brake lights and Billy goes ape shit, and starts honking. “Must be a wreck, we’re gonna be late,” he says, annoyed.
Finally, the traffic jam breaks up and he zips the van through Dallas. He’s driving so fast my heart is thundering against my chest and I grab the dash. We come up to a tunnel that looks like it’s coated in soot and I make myself memorize the names on the bridge, the three exits—ELM, MAIN, COMMERCE—in case I need to tell someone where to find me and we zoom through the Main Street underpass like we’re getting sucked up a chimney.
He finally exits and we go through a few red lights before we pull into the small parking lot for the Days Inn. I wait in the van while he checks in, then I hop out and follow him inside the dingy room. Dark brown floral bedspreads cover the beds and a fluorescent light, still on from the night before, buzzes noisily at us. I head for the bathroom, my bladder burning with urgency, and am embarrassed by the sound of my pee hitting the toilet bowl. I should’ve run the water, but I cough instead, trying to mask the sound. I wash my hands and fish out my tube of Carmex, warm and slick from my jeans pocket, and smear some on my lips before turning to leave. When I open the door, though, Billy is standing in the doorway, blocking my exit.
Hairs rise on the back of my neck and my mouth goes dry. I stand there looking at the floor, not sure of what to do, but Billy must see the alarm all over my face because he puts his hands up in retreat and scoots aside. “I just need to go myself,” he says, a smile spreading across his face.
Without a word, I squirm around him and head outside to wait near the van.
The Deep Ellum Record Warehouse is a giant red-brick loft that looks like an old factory with dusty windows. As we drive past, I crane my neck, trying to see if the psychic is still there, but Billy turns down a tight alleyway next to the Warehouse and we drive to the back. Swarms of hippies unloading their vans mix with shifty-looking characters with spiky hair and tattoos, and the noise of it all—car stereos thumping, honking horns, men shouting hellos at each other—is jarring.
We each grab a black crate of records and I trail Billy into the back entrance. When I set my crate down I start to head for the front door.
“Hey, where you goin’?” Billy shouts out after me.
“I’ll be back in five! Just going to look around for a sec,” I say and flash him a smile.
Inside, the place is massive with hundreds of tables set up and throngs of people moving shoulder to shoulder so that I have to elbow my way to get to the front door. I step out onto the street and see the psychic shop, still there. It’s three o’clock and the sign says that they’re open until five. I race back to the Warehouse and Billy slaps a banker’s envelope in my hand, full of cash. “I’ll finish unloading and you can be in charge of selling.”
An endless stream of customers line up—mostly guys in their early twenties—and I stand there, collecting cash, making change, until my hands turn gummy with money. Billy chats everyone up but then starts to wander off to talk to other vendors. I check my watch, it’s 4:38. I scan the room for Billy but can’t find him so I take the envelope with the cash and thread through the room, looking for him. I find him in a corner, smoking with a silver-haired man who has a raspy, congested laugh and I hand him the envelope.
“I’ve gotta go pee!” I say, trying to sound desperate.
“Okay! But be back in ten minutes!” he says and as I’m walking off, he shouts, “You’re my lucky charm!”
I pound down the sidewalk and try to open the door but it’s locked. I see the sign Reading In Progress. At 4:54 a young couple stumbles out, the woman’s face is soaked with tears and she clutches her very pregnant belly. I look down at the ground and walk around the couple and step into the shop. A dainty chime tinkles as I push open the glass door.
The room is dark and candlelit. It’s almost dusk now, but a fringed lamp in the corner casts a warm glow across the room. Waves of incense smoke drift lazily through the air. Oriental rugs line the bare wooden floors and pink crystals hang from the ceiling, spinning light. A woman comes out from behind a wooden beaded curtain, the strands clapping together behind her. She is a broad woman, with a wide face and long white hair. “I was just about to close, but would you like a reading?”
“Yes,” I say, breathless. Bottles of oils line the window and she motions for me to sit in a red velour chair that’s pulled up to a table.
“
I’m Shira. Care for any tea first?” she asks. Her voice is slightly accented and deep and rich like honey.
“Yes ma’am, thank you,” I say. Shira motions for me to take a seat and I sink down in the chair and watch as she disappears again behind the beaded curtain. The room is filled with tropical plants and from a dusty speaker in the corner, the sound of a soft harp plucks the air.
Shira parts the curtain again carrying a yellow metal tray with ornate, mismatched china cups, and a jewel-red teapot. She sets it down on a side table, pours the tea, and passes me a cup, the cup clattering on a saucer as her large, veiny hands shake. She is dressed in a white linen robe and has a small cap of emeralds on her head. She plops down into a throne-like seat on the other side of the table and looks me over through squinty eyes. The table is covered with green velvet fabric and a dimmed, bare bulb hangs above it.
“My readings are fifty dollars,” she says, matter-of-factly. I want to cry. All I have is the thirty-four dollars I stole from Lucy.
“But I don’t have that much, and I really need—” And before I can stop it, a gush of tears comes streaming out of my eyes and I’m clutching my stomach. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t tell her anything—I wanted to see if she was real—so I don’t explain.
“Yes, of course. I can see something’s troubling you. Well, just give me all you have then,” she offers.
I slide my hand into my purse and count out two dollars, putting them aside just in case I need it later, and I hand her the crumpled stack of ones—thirty-two of them. She licks her fingers and counts each one and smiles and nods before tucking the money in her bra.
“So, dear … let us get started,” she says.
I keep waiting for her to pull out her crystal ball and when she doesn’t, I ask her about it. “No, that is for charlatans. Here, give me your hands,” she says and rolls out her heavy arms on the table. I place my hands in hers. Her skin is papery and thin, like the skin of an onion, but her hands are strangely warm, electric. As she folds her hands over mine, she closes her eyes and bows her head. I feel a warmth spreading up my arms and Shira begins swaying slowly from side to side.
