She rose and I quickly said, “Can I phone ahead?”
Mrs. Engel looked at me, a sly look on her face. “You can try but you have two things going against you: I doubt she has a phone, and she’s deaf-as-a-post.” The librarian gave me a wave and went out the door, crossing in front of the library’s big picture windows as she went next door to polka heaven.
Mrs. Engel was quite the character but was dead-on when it came to giving directions. Rural Route 49 was just like what the rest of the country thinks of when they think of Texas: low, flat ranch land with cows, horses, feed store and a ramshackle roadhouse with a hand-lettered sign that read: “Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear.” The water tower, which surely had to be the main source of water for the town of Fredericksburg, resembled a large, aquamarine light bulb rising up out of the earth. The Russell home sat right underneath it, with only another house in sight a quarter mile away.
The house, a squat two-bedroom one-story ranch house, looked like it had seen better days and was almost surrendering to the elements: Gray peeling paint, dusty curtained windows, and a garden gnome whose colors had faded sitting in the corner of a long wooden front porch. Elma Russell, sipping on sweet tea and smoking a cigarette while rocking in a chair, was keeping the gnome company.
I could see Mrs. Russell training an eye on me as I pulled the car up to the porch but as I got out she looked no more concerned about an unannounced visitor than did the ceramic gnome.
“Mrs. Russell? Mrs. Elma Russell?” I said in an unnaturally loud voice.
Elma had on a straw sun-hat which she adjusted, took a drag of her ciggie and said, “You don’t have to shout. I may be old but I hear just fine. People may say I’m hard of hearing but I’m not—I just pretend to be if I don’t like what they’re saying.” She tapped an ash onto the porch. “Which in this town happens to be most of the time.”
I asked if I could sit and she said yes, indicating an old ottoman with a pattern of ducks in flight on it.
Mrs. Russell was wearing bib overalls but I got the sense that she wasn’t wearing them for work but for affectation because she had the pants cuffs rolled up teen-style and had a small button on one strap that said: Welcome to Texas. Now go home! Underneath the overalls she wore a baby-pink t-shirt and on her feet were rainbow-hued socks and high-top sneakers.
She eyed me without expression and said, “Why are you out here this fine sunny day? It can’t be for the honey – I don’t sell that anymore.” I looked at the portion of her side yard that I could see and sure enough, there were a few boxed hives that looked active but unattended.
I said, “I’m really sorry to bother you but I was hoping I could ask you about Arnold. Your son, Arnold?”
Her face didn’t change but her body language said volumes. She said, “First time I’ve heard Arnold’s name in a long time. Why would you be interested in him?”
I had a long enough trip down 49 to concoct a story and I marveled at my ability to lie.
I said, “Well, my name’s Brad – Brad Crenshaw, and there’s a good chance Arnold’s going to be my son-in-law. He and my oldest, Alesha, are planning to be married in the fall and to tell you the truth I don’t know much about the guy – he’s pretty closed mouthed about himself and I’d just like to know more about him. You know, a father’s maybe a little over-protective of his little girl but I just had to ask and you seem to be the only one around here that knows him.”
Elma cocked an eye and said, “Son-in-law you say?” I nodded. “Does he seem nice... I mean does he treat your daughter with respect? And you?”
“Oh, sure. He’s polite and respectful but you know how it is nowadays – can’t be too careful.” I looked at her with what I hoped was my most sincere look.
Elma pushed her hat back on her head. “It’s hot. Would you like some sweet tea? I got some fresh.” When I said yes Elma got up, patted my knee and said, “Wait right here, won’t be but a moment.”
Moments later, Elma came through her screened door carrying a small tray with a poured tea, and a carafe of more on it, which she placed on the porch in front of me. She regained her seat and started rocking slowly saying, “I hope you like it sweet.”
“Yes Ma’am.” I reached down to pick up my glass and realized that in her denim lap was a polished revolver, her right hand barely caressing it.
Seeing my widened eyes, she patted the gun and said, “Now! Maybe we can forget the bullshit and get to why you’re really here.”
“Just what I told you – My daughter is getting married and…”
Elma picked up the gun and waved it in the air dismissingly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. He’s shy and closed-mouthed and he’s polite and yadda, yadda, yadda. Mister, would you cut the horse-puckey and get on with it?”
Defeated, I said, “How did you know I was lying?”
She laughed but there was no humor in her voice. “Mister, I’m the only one alive that knows Arnold and I know there’s no way he’s polite or respectful even if it has been twenty years. I’m just surprised you’re the first one to come looking for him.”
“Twenty years?”
“Arnold left the day he turned sixteen – took twenty bucks from my purse, walked out the door without saying boo and I ain’t heard from him since. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m an old lady and my kidneys don’t work as well as they used to so why don’t you tell me your real name and the real reason you came here before I have to take a piss.” With that she relaxed back in her rocker and placed the gun back in her lap.
I squirmed on the uncomfortable sofa-stool. I said, “My name’s Ben Cain. I’m from Austin. Recently I... came in contact with an Arnold Russell and I believe he’s your Arnold Russell and I want to know more about him.”
Elma removed the straw hat, allowing her long gray hair to cascade down to her shoulders. With her hair splayed out and her full face revealed, I could see that she had once been more than beautiful – she resembled an older version of Lauren Bacall from the movies.
Seeing my look she said, “Kinda sexy, huh? Not bad for an old broad who stayed down on the farm.” She smiled at my discomfort. “Why would a fella like you want to know more about Arnold Russell?”
I thought a minute, looking at the gun.
“Oh, relax,” she said. “It’s not loaded.”
“Really?”
With that, she pointed the revolver off into the distance of her farm and pulled the trigger. Fire spit from the barrel and a loud roar erupted and I slipped off the ottoman and dropped my drink. There was still smoke easing out of the barrel as she replaced the gun in her lap, composed herself, and looked at me demurely.
“Oops. Sometimes I forget.”
I gulped and righted myself on my perch, picking up the glass and at a loss for words. Elma made it easier for me.
“Let me guess: You’ve met this Arnold Russell and he feels dangerous to you and you want to know just how dangerous and you want me to tell you. That about it, Skippie?”
Weakly, I said, “In a nutshell, yes.”
She pushed back a stray lock of gray. She seemed to steady herself and said, “I’m a great believer in nurture over nature Mr. Cain. You get what I’m saying? Henry, that’s my late husband, and I tried to undo all that claptrap that the momma Mueller put into Arnold’s head but our three years with him couldn’t unravel the evil, spiteful, holy shit-fire that she put in him and that’s the god-awful truth! You see, Social Services wasn’t like what it is now – nowadays you can’t raise your voice to a kid without the Storm Troopers rushing in in the middle of the night and clubbing you over the head. Not for Gerda, though. She beat and harangued those two boys forever-and-a-day and nobody said a word. We’re not all back-woodsy like everybody thinks but back just a few years ago you didn’t interfere with families, with parents. Anyway, Gerda put the fear of God in those two and when I say ‘fear of God’ I mean just that! God will punish you if you breathe wrong or God will punish you if you scuff your shoes; I mean, I can s
till hear her voice, right out in public where everyone could hear her: ‘There’s going to be hell to pay!’.”
There’s going to be hell to pay!
I said, “I don’t understand. How did you end up with Arnold? Would you have taken the other one?”
Elma looked confused. “Who can say? Arnold was thirteen, Felix was twelve. When the fire happened we couldn’t figure out where Felix had gone…” Elma’s face had turned pale at the memory. “No... no, that’s wrong. We knew, we just couldn’t face it. Damn our souls, no one wanted to believe a mother would do that.”
“You don’t mean…”
She nodded. “Yes... many of us suspected she killed her own boy and committed suicide by burning down the house. Whether Albrecht had anything to do with it, I don’t know.”
I was chilled, even in the summer heat. “Now, let me get this straight: Arnold’s the older boy, Felix is a year younger. She murders Felix and then burns down her own house, killing her husband in the process? Did she intend to kill Arnold too?”
Elma was tapping the gun absentmindedly, staring off into space. I was afraid the damn thing was going to go off. Finally she said, “Somebody found Arnold on the other side of town, swimming in the park and oblivious to what had happened. I don’t know, but I doubt Gerda would have killed Arnold – as much as she beat the crap out of those boys, Arnold was always her favorite. She called him ‘the Good One.’ To this day I get tears just thinking about the look in Felix’s face when she’d say that. Poor thing, it broke his heart.” Elma shivered, chilled just like I was by the inhumanity of it all. The insanity of it all.
Elma broke her trance and looked at me. “Kind of hard to believe something like that would happen in the nineties, huh? It sounds like something right out of turn-of-the-century England. Like Lizzy Borden or something.”
Or like the Mother on CNN who just drowned her four kids because she was “depressed.”
“Are you sure they never found Felix’s remains in the burned house?”
“Yes. And that’s why everybody thinks she did something to him. A twelve-year-old boy can’t just disappear, can he?”
Yes... yes, he can. And it happens more than you think.
I said, “Did you and your husband attempt to adopt Arnold?”
Elma thought a moment, looking pensive and growing weary of the memories. Softly she said, “At first we considered it. After rattling around the state system for a week, we were awarded temporary guardianship of Arnold and he came to live with us. Henry and I tried everything but Arnold was adamant about what his mother had taught him: TV was bad, uncleanliness was bad, alcohol was wicked, comic books were a sin – I mean it was endless! And everything ended with punishment. The postman should be punished for leaving dirt on our porch, the teacher said ‘Damn it’ – blasphemy! She should be whipped. It got so bad that I had to go through the whole rigmarole to tutor him because the school kept throwing him out! Poor Henry, he tried, but after a couple years all thoughts of adopting Arnold were gone.”
“And then Arnold left?”
“The day he turned sixteen. Just like he’d been planning it all along. I think he knew the social administrators and the cops wouldn’t look too hard for him if he was sixteen. Nobody said so but, except for me and Henry, I think everybody in this town was glad he was gone.”
Mindboggling. How in this day and age can we let things get so far gone that this kind of thing happens? I thought of all the teenagers hanging around street corners in the school district, bumper-to-bumper cars at noon filled with young people with no apparent destination – are all these people rootless too? No parents, no home, no job?
I said, “It must have been hard on you, hard on your husband. How long has he been gone?”
Suddenly re-aware of the gun, she shook her head and put the pistol on the deck of the porch. She said, “Nine years come this November. He left me this…” she nodded towards the gun, “…and absolutely no idea how to harvest bees. He did all that and like a fool never showed me how. Good man, though. He loved me, and in his own way he loved Arnold too, but Arnold couldn’t love anyone back. Arnold couldn’t love.”
I understood. Elma refilled her sweet tea and said, “So – why did you need to hear all that? You said you think he’s dangerous. I agree. But what’s he to you? And don’t tell me he’s marrying your daughter.” She eyed the gold band on my third finger.
What could I say? The enormity of everything struck me like a freight train. In spite of their fractured relationship, there was no way I could tell this woman that someone she had cared for was a serial child killer and that I was going to put him in the ground. I waved off her offer of more tea.
“I’m not sure,” I said. Elma Russell gave me a don’t-bullshit-me-look. “All I can say is I’m looking out for my best interests and forewarned is forearmed.” I set down my glass and got up to go. I mumbled a “thank you.”
Elma let me get as far as the bottom step of her porch before she said, “I think you oughta know one thing more, Mr. Cain.”
The sun-hat was replaced. I said, “What?”
She locked me with her eyes and said, “I can’t prove anything but Henry and I suspected that Arnold had something to do with a lot of folks’ pets dying around here. Dogs, cats – Higgins down on Fremont lost a bunch of chickens and it didn’t look like no coyote took them. Know what I mean?”
“Yes.” I shuddered.
Elma said, “That’s why we never got a dog.” Her eyebrows crested. “Arnold always said they were too dirty – too many germs.”
My mind went back to the pristine, tidy home on Decatur. I said goodbye and turned to go. Elma called out to me once again.
I said, “Yes, Mrs. Russell?”
She picked up her gun and rubbed it slowly.
“You best be careful.”
My arms had goose bumps as I cracked the door to the Volvo. All of a sudden a new thought came unbidden to me.
“Mrs. Russell? That house in Kerrville... the one that burned? Do you think I could find it?”
PART THREE
“Why do you do these terrible Things?” Cried the Sun.
Because I can.” Replied the Wind.
– Tobias Mortimee
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elma Russell was just as good at giving directions as the tuba-playing librarian had been and I pulled into the long gravel driveway of the old Mueller home just before four. What was left of the house sat on a treed two-acre square several miles outside of Kerrville. The lot had a sense of remoteness, the nearest neighbors a goodly distance on each side. The burnt-out husk of a house still lay boiling in the sun but in the far rear of the property there was a tool shed, really a small barn, still standing. Dry and gray, the shed held no windows and the roof, faded-reddish asphalt tile, looked like it would any minute burst into flames.
The driveway led to a grassy lane behind the shed and I parked in old ruts in the dirt. The shed was large enough to obscure me from anyone on the road but there was no car on the road, no tractor on its way back home from cutting hay. The air had a hot, dusty smell and my over-active imagination made me think there was a still-lingering smokiness. Impossible. Moving from the back of the building I observed no side doors or windows and curiosity led me to the only front entrance: two car-width wooden doors held together by a hasp and a large padlock labeled “ABUS.” Standing there, feeling the heat moisten the back of my shirt, I examined the lock: it appeared new. I looked around the corner of the building, back at my vehicle and the three-inch ruts it sat in. In the Texas climate, those indentations should have been leveled and overgrown with the same grass that was everywhere around it. The lock and the hasp lacked the rust found on every other metal piece on the barn/shed.
Returning to my car I examined my tires. The Volvo’s standard tires filled up maybe half the width of the ruts they sat in. A bigger vehicle had been there. Many times.
With an eye on the road, I withdrew the claw-hammer and
screwdriver from the back seat of my car and returned to the doors. The lock and hasp were new and sturdy, but the wood it was anchored to was not. I pried under the lip of the hasp and all three screws easily sprang from the aged wood. I quickly opened one door and slipped inside, closing the door behind me. Without windows, the inner light was miniscule but I could see enough to see all three walls adorned with rusted farm implements and a few sacks of old grain and fertilizer. A few decades ago, the Muellers ate their own crops. Overhead was a single light bulb held by a weathered cloth-covered wire. I clicked it on/off. The power to the shed was still active. Along one long wall was a work bench with vice and saw and in one corner was a small gas-powered tiller and an assortment of hoes, rakes, shovels and scythe.
Centered in the room was a chair.
An ordinary high-backed wooden chair, like the kind Ma Cain favored for the dining room because she thought we had more suitable posture when having guests and because, as she said, “They make your father’s back feel better.” I stood in front of the chair, taking in the gummy residue that clung to the wooden arms and legs. Stuffy air all around me, I made myself turn a circle, three-hundred and sixty degrees, and viewed everything all at once. My skin crawled.
There wasn’t a speck of dust on anything. With the exception of the rakes and hoes, the seed and tiller made a lie to the twenty years that they had sat there. My eye was drawn to an object that was hung on a nail over the work bench. A belt. An oiled-leather black belt, thick and notched for a large man with a circular metal buckle and an intricate filigree of horses tooled into the leather. The air in the room was filled with a feeling... a wrongness. It wasn’t just the heat, but all of a sudden I couldn’t breathe in there. My lungs found no air, my head dizzied and my heart hammered. I stumbled outside, bile rising in my throat.
Candy from a Stranger Page 15
