The 45th Parallel

by Lisa Girolami

  So she sat on the couch. The manila envelope containing her mother’s living trust sat across from her on the coffee table. She stared at the stack of paper. A simple pile of wood pulp had been turned into paper sheets that now possessed serious meaning and function. It was an important document, a statement of finality, demanding to be put into practice.

  The living trust, Val thought, a written document of insurance for those who wanted to have some semblance of control in their posthumous years, to bequeath or deny whatever they chose, to set forth a decree commanding the specific disbursement of what they had owned while in the flesh of life, so that their wishes were specifically carried out long past their ability to personally ensure their demands were met with satisfaction. Long past the stiffness of rigor mortis and the disposal of the flesh, the bequeather was still able to reach out a spectral hand and ensure that because of their lawyer-approved terms of property distribution, the material goods they wished to convey fell safely into the hands of their chosen recipients.

  This living trust, intentionally meant to lie as dormant as a fourteen-year cicada lies still beneath the earth, waited for the moment it was freed to become useful and serve a purpose. And the time of death, according to the living trust, became that certain cicada spring, and the lawyer became the vessel that called it forth when, finally, their now-departed, out-of-print edition of themselves could rest easy, assured their last biddings had been granted.

  All that hoopla, Val thought, for a mother to pass along her possessions to her only child.

  Had she been able to talk to her mother about her end-of-life plans, she would have told her that she didn’t want the house and didn’t need whatever savings were left in her bank account. Val would have told her that she’d moved on long ago, that her mother’s possessions should remain with whatever boyfriend was hers that particular year or, barring a beau, that any afterlife assets should go to whatever charity her mother found most appropriate.

  But her mother had thought differently. And she had immortalized in ink that she had apparently always wanted Val to have it all.

  Maybe the reason was wrapped up in her mother’s desire to get Val to return to Hemlock for whatever motive she’d carried with her. Or possibly she’d left Val her possessions out of guilt for running her off right after graduation.

  But then again, perhaps forcing her to return to Hemlock was designed to be the penance for leaving in the first place.

  Part of Val reasoned that leaving her things to her daughter made perfect sense, but then why do so when Val had clearly not been present during the majority of the last two decades of her life?

  The living trust sat on a glass-topped coffee table, and she figured she’d eventually need to read it all. Underneath the glass lay two tattered-edge photo albums. Val reached down, hefted their bulky weight, and dropped them on her lap.

  According to the wording, neatly written in pen on the inside cover, the contents contained a chronological record of the past five years of her mother’s life in Hemlock. Most of the pages stored newspaper clippings of her involvement in the local community theater. Photos and articles with pink highlights underlined her name or character.

  Val stopped at one that read “The Girls From The Garden Club guaranteed to harvest the laughs!” Another had a picture of her mother and two other cast members with a byline declaring “The Girls From The Garden Club soak up rays of sunshine!” Another article gave the play a rave review: “For a relatively small play, The Girls From The Garden Club hits big!” Reading further down, Val found the pink highlight mentioning her mother. “Kris Montague’s run as Rhoda is endearing and funny. It is also to be noted that she served as the play’s prop person. ‘It’s fun to try to get as many props as you can on a shoestring budget,’ she said.”

  The sting of the first tears of sadness nipped at the inside corners of her eyes. She allowed them easy passage, and they ran down the sides of her nose, streaming down her face, where they pooled on the tip of her chin until she wiped them away.

  She looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Mom. You were living your life, weren’t you? You were having a blast and just doing your thing.”

  Val sifted through more pictures and articles. She smiled and even chuckled at times, then raised her hand to her chest as if trying to quell the physical throb of guilt because she hadn’t experienced that part of her life with her mother.

  A cracking sound came from outside and Val jumped. She listened for something else that would give her more information as to the origin of the sound, but only silence followed. Still, the noise had been pronounced enough that she decided to get up to investigate. She flicked her wrist over. It was after nine o’clock, which wasn’t late, but the racket had been so out of the ordinary, given that the whole time she’d been home prior, the din from the sporadic traffic on the highway was the only audible activity.

  She stopped at the front door, listening again. She reached for the doorknob and heard scuffling. It sounded close.

  Val spoke through the closed door. “Hello?”

  When her call went unanswered, she went to the front window and looked out. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she opened the front door and peered outside. The street was dark, as usual, her car sitting exactly as she’d parked it in the driveway and the lamppost right by her door illuminating the first third of the front lawn.

  She turned to go back inside, and in that same second, she heard a swooshing sound. Her brain reacted by turning to her right, but a shroud of white instantly seized her entire upper body.

  She raised her arms, not understanding what was happening, but aggressive hands apprehended them, yanking them downward as the pungent smell of laundry soap attacked her nostrils. As the cloth constricted her face and throat, she realized it must have been a pillowcase and it was now excessively tight.

  The terrified panic of a scuba diver reaching for an air tank filled her, and somehow, she flailed enough to get one hand free and grabbed the cloth. She was able to lift part of the pillowcase off her head so she could see two sets of shoes. A pair of Dingo boots was right in front of her, matching her frightened twisting, and suddenly, the reality of her situation slammed home.

  Thrashing as violently as she could, she fought to break away. She then screamed, but the attempt morphed into a grunt when she was thrown backward, to the ground just inside her foyer. All she could see were legs and belt buckles before the pillowcase was shoved down to her throat again.

  A growl came from one of the men, and she could almost feel his breath through the cloth. “Shut up!”

  The words felt like a poisonous snake threatening to strike her at close range, and her automatic reflex was to twist and push away powerfully. Self-preservation became her only drive, and she contorted her body frantically.

  A series of punches that came fast and hard rewarded her. The first ones glanced off her shoulder and arm, but then they began to land with ferocious accuracy. Her chest took two blows that knocked the breath out of her, and two sets of fists simultaneously pummeled her shoulders and head, immobilizing her. She crumpled to the ground, and they landed on top of her.

  She heard a voice, though she wasn’t sure if it was the same man as before. “Go.”

  One of them raised himself off her. Footsteps clomped loudly and quickly around the house. With one of the men holding her down roughly, and her entire upper body aching from the blows, all she could do was listen.

  Other sounds came, and she knew he was rummaging round the house. A rush of anguish washed over her as telltale signs of drawers opening and things being moved around came from all the rooms.

  And then she heard jingling.

  Val tried to scream, but the man’s weight forced her breath into a grunt. She managed to get out a few words. “What do you want?”

  The man hit her again.

  “I said shut up, bitch! Just shut up!”

  More shuffling and movement came, and the stomping of boots got louder. Sh
e rolled her head just as a fist came down on the side of her face. White fireworks exploded behind her closed eyes. She tried to roll into a ball and realized she could because the hands that had held her had let go.

  She heard the men leave through the front door. Val reached up to remove the pillowcase and yelped at the pain in her ribcage. She dropped the pillowcase at her side and quickly scanned the house to make sure they were really gone. She tried to lift herself off the floor, but the pain seared her all over and her legs shook too much. The door was wide open and she crawled toward it. She didn’t see anything on the darkened street in front of her house, but then headlights flashed on and a car pulled up by the for-sale sign.

  Rage bubbled up from her stomach, and she struggled to yell out her anger but couldn’t. The two men jumped into the car, and though the interior lights came on, she couldn’t make out much detail about them. But in the three seconds it took them to slam the doors and extinguish the light, she made out one startling detail. The person sitting in the front passenger seat was the woman whose Buick had hit the deer first.

  As the car sped away, Val rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She moved her hand toward her front pocket and winced. Slowly, she pulled her phone out, dialed 911, and told the woman who answered what had happened. Val was told to stay on the line. What else could she do? She lay there on the floor and continued to stare at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck those guys had stolen from the house.

  *

  The police officer had just taken her report while his partner roamed around the front yard looking for evidence. The other one stood close by, writing in a small notebook. Donna sat with Val on the couch as two paramedics finished treating a cut over her eyebrow.

  “I don’t understand this,” she said aloud, though she wasn’t really addressing anyone in particular.

  “I don’t either,” Donna said, “but I know you shouldn’t be staying here anymore.”

  “What I shouldn’t be doing is answering the door.”

  One of the paramedics stood from her kneeling position in front of Val. “You really should go to the hospital.”

  “No, I don’t want to.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We’re all finished here. But if your ribs get worse or you wake up and have trouble breathing tomorrow, you’ll need to go see a doctor.”

  Val reached up and tentatively touched her bandaged forehead. “Thank you.”

  “We don’t get many home invasions around here,” the policeman said as he finished writing. “If you’re able to, could you look around and see what they took?”

  With help from Donna, Val got up slowly and walked through the house. Breathing hurt like hell. The paramedics said they didn’t think anything was broken, but her body felt like it had run with the Pamplona bulls and unceremoniously lost.

  The place did look tossed around. Drawers and cabinets were left open and items in the closets were overturned. But her mother’s valuables, which were mostly inexpensive rings and necklaces, were still in her dresser drawer.

  “Nothing’s missing that I can tell,” she said when she returned to the front room.

  The officer who’d been outside stepped back in through the front door and shook his head. The first officer closed his notebook and handed Val a business card. “We’ll be stopping by Mack’s garage tomorrow morning, Miss Montague. Since he’s working on the car of the woman you saw, he should have her name and number.”

  “Mack knows her, too,” Val said as she sat back down next to Donna.

  “All the better.”

  The paramedics began wrapping up their work. A knock at the open door made them all turn their heads. Pastor Kind walked in and greeted both officers by their first names. He nodded to the paramedics, thanking one for helping some elderly church member with his bad knee, then walked over to Val.

  “Are you all right?”

  “This town is getting smaller by the minute.”

  Donna swatted Val on the knee. “I called him, you dork.”

  “I’m here to help,” Pastor Kind said. “Unfortunately, I know more than I care to about trouble. I serve on the Hemlock Violence Abatement Council here. Some of us townsfolk spend time reading the violence reports at the police station and carry the word, as well as the awareness, out to the streets.”

  The officers walked to the doorway. “We’re through here. Miss Montague, my number is on that business card as well as the case number that you can refer to. I doubt they’ll be back tonight, but if you see these people again, don’t go outside. Call 911.”

  “Lesson learned. Thank you.”

  Pastor Kind waved to the officers as they walked out and then sat down on Val’s other side.

  She felt confined, and a thought ran through her mind of a mosquito between two hands slapped quickly together.

  “Tell me what you saw,” Pastor Kind said.

  “Just like I told the officer, I heard some noise outside the front door, and when I opened it, two men grabbed me. They threw a pillowcase over my head, and one of them started beating the crap out of me.”

  “What did the other one do?”

  “I’m not sure, but it sounded like he was looking for something. All I could hear…” She stopped suddenly. “The jingling!”

  Val got up a little too quickly. She felt Donna’s hand on her arm as she closed her eyes and waited for the dizziness to stop.

  “This is the second time you’ve almost passed out,” Donna said.

  She tried to pull her back down to the couch, but Val waved her off and sluggishly walked over to the dining-room table.

  “The keys. Goddamn it.”

  “What?”

  “The keys. They took my mother’s keys.”

  Donna stood. “What would they want with them?”

  “I have no clue.

  Pastor Kind asked, “Did you have anything special on the key ring?”

  “Not unless they coveted my mom’s little Kewpie doll.”

  Donna looked sideways at Val. “No, he means what did the keys go to?”

  “Just this house. My mom’s safe-deposit-box key.” She shook her head, baffled. “The car key wasn’t on there. It’s at Mack’s.” She sat down at the table. “Maybe they wanted to steal the rental car and broke in to steal the keys because they never learned how to hot-wire.”

  Pastor Kind’s voice was hesitant. “You’re joking again, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they get that key?”

  “No. It’s still in my pocket. They were too stupid to check, I guess.”

  “What about your mother’s safe-deposit box?” Donna asked. “Maybe these guys wanted jewelry or other valuables.”

  “Do you know what’s in it?” Pastor Kind said.

  “Nothing now. This just doesn’t make sense.” She looked up at the pastor. “Any similar crime patterns come to mind?”

  “No. This one’s new. If this is a home-invasion crime, it’s a pretty subdued one. And nothing else was on the key ring?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I hope this is the first and last time someone invades your place.”

  “This wasn’t the first time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Donna answered for her. “Someone went through some of Val’s things during the open house Nedra Tobias had the other day. And at the motel, too.”

  Her stare at Val was stern, and she suddenly realized the intent.

  Donna continued. “Cam Nelson knew you were at the motel. You told me so at lunch today.”

  Would Cam do that, Val wondered.

  Pastor Kind said, “What do you think Cam would want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe she knows about your mother’s living trust. Money makes people do strange things.”

  Val flicked her wrist like a gambler waves off another card. “It’s a living trust. She can’t touch it.”

  “Still,” Donna said, “you’d better stay away from her for
a while. At least until the police can sort things out.”

  The pastor got up and walked over to Val. “I’ll call the police and tell them they might want to pay Cam a visit.”

  He placed a reassuring hand on Val’s shoulder, but all she felt was uncomfortable.

  “The police will find out who did this,” he said.

  “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

  “No, Donna. I’m fine. You two go home. I just need some sleep.”

  “Well, I guess you’ve had enough excitement for one night.” Donna stood.

  Val nodded. “Whoever said that Hemlock was a boring little town?”

  “You did, twenty years ago. The day you left.”

  Donna hugged her and then followed Pastor Kind to the front door.

  “Call me if anything weird happens, okay?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve had to say that,” Val said and closed the door behind them.

  *

  Val lay on the couch, a hand draped over her bandaged forehead. Why were these things happening? What did they want? Were they just slimy riffraff who knew her mom was dead and figured they could just scare off the foreigner daughter and take what they wanted?

  She sat up slowly and assessed the ache in her head. She could handle the dull throbbing and even the nasty pain in her ribs, but what would it feel like come morning?

  The photo album she’d been looking through right before she was beaten up was still open. She picked it up and put it in her lap. She flipped through the pages but couldn’t concentrate on any one image. When she reached the last page, she put the album aside and picked up the other one.

  The pages held childhood memories documenting the time she’d lived in Hemlock.

  “Something’s going on, Mom. What do they want?”