Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “Please,” Courtney says. “We don’t want to hurt anyone. We just want to talk. Maybe you can help us. Maybe . . . maybe we can help you. And your . . . daughter?”

  The white-­haired woman clenches her jaw. Behind us, we hear a boy’s voice.

  “You need help, Ms. Anderson?” he asks.

  “I got this under control,” she mutters. “Thank you.”

  My fingers are getting numb behind my head. The butt of Ms. Anderson’s plastic cane has dug into the cold dirt, and she seems content to keep standing there leaning on it, keeping her shotgun trained on Courtney until we decide to leave. Her snow-­white, Don King hairdo, oversized ears and prune face make her look like a little gnome.

  “We—­” I croak. She seems to notice me for the first time, and the muzzle of her weapon swivels to my chest. “We’re looking for something. A tape.”

  It takes her a moment to process what I said. Creasing her pink forehead, she keeps staring at me down the barrel of what looks like a cheap Harrington pump-­action.

  “What did you say?” she says slowly.

  I glance sideways at Courtney.

  “A tape,” I repeat.

  I can hear her nasal breathing from here. She’s so small. Not much taller than Sadie, and she’s positively swimming in her loose blue sweater. Her eyes dart quickly to the crumpled girl behind us, then back, first to me, then Courtney.

  “Do you two have weapons?”

  “I have a knife,” I say. Had to mail my Magnum to my East Broadway address before getting on the plane.

  “Take it out slowly and lay it at your feet. I swear on my husband’s grave, you try anything I’ll fire.”

  I oblige, and then she finally lowers her shotgun. I exhale.

  “She’s not my daughter, she’s my niece,” Ms. Anderson says.

  “What happened to her?” Courtney asks.

  She sizes us up warily, leaning forward so she can see over the tops of her glasses.

  “Come inside,” she finally says. “But if you two are taking advantage of me—­”

  “I know.” I nod. “We get it.”

  She stares at me, tight-­lipped, then turns and shuffles back toward the house. She moves slowly up the porch steps, taking her time to steady herself with her cane. When Courtney offers her his elbow to grab, she rejects it.

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  We follow her through the swinging screen door, leaving Candy tied up in the garden. The door opens into a dreary hallway with cream-­colored wallpaper and a ceiling so low that Courtney has to slouch to avoid hitting his head.

  “Get chairs,” she says, motioning to a closet down the hall. She stays back and hangs her shotgun on a rack by the door, then shuffles out of sight. It’s freezing in here; seems even colder than outside.

  We squeeze down the tight hallway—­single file—­to the closet, and the hallway is so narrow that there’s barely room to open the closet door. It’s filled mostly with men’s clothing on hangers, all wrapped in plastic. Smells like mothballs. Beneath the clothes we find two metal folding chairs.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper to Courtney as I pull out the chairs and close the closet door. “What’s with that girl?”

  “Seriously, Frank? How would I know?”

  I notice that his jaw is chattering slightly and his eyes are darting around in his head.

  “Are you alright?” I ask.

  “I don’t like tight spaces,” he says.

  We move back toward the door, Courtney first, in a hurry to get out of this hall.

  “I’m in here,” we hear our host shout.

  We follow the sound of her voice through an open doorway and find her in the kitchen. Immediately Courtney straightens his back and seems to relax. In here, the ceiling is impossibly high, perhaps fifteen feet. This room is shaped like an elevator. I look back at the cramped hallway to try to reconcile the two spaces and my brain feels like it’s going to explode. This house seems to exist in a space exempt from the physical laws that govern the outside world.

  The ceiling creates the illusion of spaciousness, but in terms of square footage the kitchen is quite small and cluttered. Half the room is a countertop kitchenette: sink filled with dirty dishes; two-­burner gas stove; a few very old-­looking pots and pans piled in the corner. Against the far wall of the kitchen are dozens of taped-­up cardboard boxes stacked precariously on top of one another, reaching nearly to the cathedral ceiling. I gaze up their height and still can’t quite figure what the hell is going on with the architecture in here. Whoever designed this place must have been dropping some serious acid.

  Ms. Anderson is sitting in a velvet upholstered chair, elbows on an Ikea-­esque card table, looking out the kitchen window. She’s partially draped in a puffy down coat that envelops both her and the back of the chair. The window she’s looking through provides a view of Candy, sitting still in the garden.

  We unfold the chairs and sit on either side of her at the table. In front of her on the table is an illustrated almanac, which I guess she was reading when she saw us walk up. The only other item on the tabletop is a glass jar filled with NutraSweet packets.

  “I’m the one who tied her up out there,” she sighs, clearly relieved to be sitting. “I had no choice. She’s wandered off twice. She nearly fell in a stream and drowned the last time. I had to tie her up for her own protection. Lord knows I can’t sit and watch her all day.”

  “Why don’t you bring her inside?” Courtney asks.

  Ms. Anderson’s eyes are wet and distant as she stares at the creature in her garden. She’s definitely over eighty but seems pretty with it. Her skin sags like it’s trying to escape from her face. She smells of baby wipes and bacon.

  “She wants to be outside when it’s light. She’ll fight me tooth and nail if I try to bring her in before nightfall. She doesn’t mind the cold.”

  I glance around at the kitchen. Everything is old and crummy in here. Shitty fridge, tile floor and peeling yellow wallpaper stained brown from water damage. Everything except the high ceiling, which—­though it could be some trick of the light—­looks to be a white so clean and new that it’s almost sparkling. Through a doorway opposite the hallway I see what must be the living room, carpeted in puke-­green shag. A wooden crucifix hangs over a muted TV, local news anchor discussing something seriously. The walls of the living room appear to be curved, like the whole room is a cylinder. I’ve never bought any of that feng shui bullshit, but if it’s possible to convey bad vibes through interior space, this house has nailed it.

  “What happened to her?” I ask.

  Ms. Anderson ignores my question, or maybe just doesn’t hear me. “You said you’re looking for a tape.”

  I flinch as I hear a rustling behind me. Turn just in time to see a mouse dive into a trashcan overflowing with egg cartons and empty sausage wrappers. I turn back to Ms. Anderson, who hasn’t taken her eyes off the window.

  “That’s right,” I say. Courtney keeps stealing glances out the window at Candy’s stooped form.

  “What kind of tape?” she asks.

  “We’re not sure, exactly,” I answer.

  “Why are you two here?” she says.

  Courtney and I exchange a look, and he makes a little show of reluctance as he pulls the torn envelope out of his canvas bag, no doubt trying to earn her trust by confiding in her. He shows her the return address.

  “That’s her, isn’t it? Your niece?”

  Ms. Anderson turns away from the window and looks over the top of her glasses to squint at the writing.

  “Yes. Where did you get this?”

  “The man who made the tape. Candy was corresponding with him by post.”

  Ms. Anderson says nothing. Coughs and clears her throat.

  “So you’ve heard about this tape?” I ask.

 
She glares at me, her wrinkled fingers affectionately stroking the cane that leans against the arm of her chair. Outside a truck rumbles down Main Street, leaving behind a thick silence.

  “What’s your name?” she asks me.

  “Frank Lamb.”

  “Am I making a mistake trusting you, Frank?” Ms. Anderson says, staring at me with eyes that, even through her thick glasses, convey a life filled with unimaginable pain. “We just want peace and privacy, Candy and I. We don’t want you to write about us and we don’t want any more reporters to come.”

  I shake my head. “We don’t want anything like that, Ms. Anderson. I’m being truthful with you. All we care about is finding this tape.”

  She turns to Courtney. “And who are you?”

  “Courtney Lavagnino.”

  “Courtney? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  She breathes through her nose. “My name is Paula Anderson,” she says carefully. “I want to believe you two. You have good souls, I think. Can I trust you?”

  “We’ll never write about you,” Courtney says. “You have my word.”

  “And no photographs?” she asks.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Ms. Anderson looks at him like she’s x-­raying him with her eyes, trying to read his thoughts. And it seems to work:

  “Would you like some tea?” she asks.

  Courtney’s eyes light up. “Yes please,” he says.

  With great effort, she grasps her cane and pushes herself out of her chair. Both Courtney and I rush up to help her, but she motions with her palm that she’s fine.

  “You boys won’t be here tomorrow to help,” she says. “And if I take one day off, I might never be able to do it again.” She walks to the sink, fills up a pot with water and puts it on the propane burner.

  I look out the window and see that Candy hasn’t moved. She’s hunched over, staring at the hard ground, each of her breaths a sad puff of steam. Looking at her makes me feel even colder.

  “My father, rest in peace, grew up on a farm,” Ms. Anderson says, watching the water heat up. “And his father told him, ‘If you want to be the strongest man alive, take a newborn calf, put it on your shoulders and carry him around all sides of the farm every morning. Never take a day off, and soon you’ll be carrying a cow.’ ” She exhales. “That’s the important thing. Never take a day off.”

  She seems to lose herself for a moment in the depths of the pot, then turns to us and says, “One of the neighbors called me at my house in Trinidad the night Candace got hurt. This was a few years ago. He found my number on my little brother’s fridge.”

  “Your little brother is—­was—­Candace’s father?”

  “Yes.” Ms. Anderson nods. “This was back when I still drove. I got in the car and to the hospital as soon as I could. She was in Memorial Hospital in Pueblo. They were trying to stitch her up. She was losing so much blood and had already had three or four strokes. With each one a little more of her left. I was never really that close to her, to tell you the truth. My little brother and I talked rarely—­there was thirteen years between us—­and I hadn’t seen Candace since she was probably fourteen, at my husband’s funeral. But still I expected her to recognize me. She had no idea who I was. I’m not sure if she knew what anything was. I could see her brain.”

  Courtney sucks his teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  She doesn’t seem to hear him. “She could still speak by the time I got there, but it was nonsense. Word salad, is what they called it. The cops were trying to get her to tell them what happened, but there was no chance. But I remember one word that kept coming up. Tape. She said it a few times. She couldn’t even control her limbs; they were flailing around while they tried to stitch her head. They had to tie her down to the gurney. But she said that a few times. She said tape. And I never really thought much of it, to tell you the truth. Figured it was nonsense. Hardly thought about it since then. Until today, when you showed up here asking about it.”

  The water starts boiling, and she takes the pot off the fire. She finds two mugs in the cupboard and distributes the water between them. Manages to carry both over to the table in one hand, using the other for her cane. Hands us each a steaming cup and a tea bag. Mango dream, it says. I watch the steam from my tea swirl all the way up to the ceiling, the mango’s spirit finally released from his tea-­bag prison.

  “You said years,” Courtney says. “How many?”

  Ms. Anderson sits back down. “About three years ago, now, I guess.”

  “What happened?” I ask. “How did she get hurt?”

  Ms. Anderson looks out the window, as if to make sure nothing has changed since she left.

  “It was the same night they killed the Olson boy, then disappeared. The town was overrun by press and cops. Most of the articles don’t mention her, because I wouldn’t let them into the hospital room. But twelve men killing a child and disappearing into thin air is big news on its own.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Candy was hurt the same night the Beulah Twelve killed the kid and disappeared?”

  Ms. Anderson nods.

  “So then they’re related?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She laughs lightly. “Those twelve men used to meet in this house. In the attic. Lincoln—­her father, my brother—­started the whole group. The police think Candace was trying to stop them from killing the boy, and that’s when one of them hit her.”

  Courtney swallows. “I didn’t read anything about this,” he says.

  Ms. Anderson sniffs proudly and pushes her round glasses up on her nose. “I didn’t press charges on Candace’s behalf, and I kept the press out as best I could. I kept Candace in the hospital, and then a home, until everything died down. It seemed like the best thing I could do for her. Give her some privacy.”

  “So her father—­your brother—­did this?”

  “A doctor told me in the hospital he thought she was hit with the sharp side of a shovel. The police found the shovel a few days after they left town, in the corner of the attic under some cardboard boxes. The edge was still sticky.”

  Courtney flinches. “Were you surprised? That Lincoln would do that to his own daughter?”

  She sighs. I imagine I can see the wear of the last few years, caring for her vegetating niece, in every crag of Ms. Anderson’s sunken forehead and chin.

  “I was surprised that he and eleven others killed that boy. After that, I guess all bets are off, as they say.”

  Courtney scratches his stubbly cheeks.

  “So the detectives and all them, when this happened,” I stammer, “they knew all about Candace?”

  “Of course.” Ms. Anderson nods. “But what’s the difference to them? It’s not as if they needed another reason to find those men—­and there was no question it was them. Everyone told me they heard the twelve of them up in that attic at ungodly hours for weeks before the murder. I had no idea any of this was going on. Lived miles away and hardly spoke to Lincoln. But the next-­door neighbor, Harry Everette is his name, told the police that when he came over that night after hearing screams, the boy was already dead, and Candace was bleeding on the stairs. The men and their trucks were gone. And you must know the story after that. No trace of them, except they later discovered some credit card activity in Chicago. I sold my house in Trinidad after that and moved in here to take care of Candace. Been here ever since.”

  Courtney sips on his tea, visibly disturbed. I wrap my hands around the cup to warm them.

  “So what is this tape?” she asks. “And why was my niece talking about it before she lost the ability to speak?”

  I inhale. Maybe I’ll just let Courtney handle this. But he’s looking at me like go ahead, probably thinking along similar lines.

  “We were hired to find it,” I say. “The ma
n who your niece was corresponding with was a killer. He made this tape. It supposedly contains the dying words of one of his victims. A young woman.”

  Ms. Anderson raises a white eyebrow. “Why would anybody care enough about that to hire you?”

  I crack my neck to either side. “We’re not exactly sure.” It’s not a lie, precisely. More of a lack of truth. “But it seems increasingly clear to me that for some reason, this man mailed the tape to your niece. And that it was somehow what instigated this boy’s murder, as well as Candace’s injury.”

  Courtney nods at me, like he’s telling me he agrees with my on-­the-­spot deduction. He turns back to Ms. Anderson. “Essentially, it seems clear that finding this tape, and what it contains, will also help clear up exactly what happened to your niece. I assume this is something you’d like to resolve as well?”

  Ms. Anderson nods. Gazes out the window. “Yes.”

  “So,” I say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, obviously anyone would be surprised that their brother could do this, but . . . had you ever seen him exhibit any behaviors at all that maybe, looking back, make this whole thing make a little more sense?”

  Ms. Anderson shakes her head slowly. “I’ve asked myself the same thing many times. No. We weren’t close, didn’t really see eye to eye, and I don’t even know if I’d consider him a particularly nice person. But this wasn’t him. He was solid. Simple. A little boring. Liked trucks, beer and football.”

  “So then you agree that something drastic must have happened. Something must have come into his life—­like this tape. Then he’s starting a cult, killing a kid, hitting his daughter and disappearing.”

  The back of her chair creaks as she reclines and rests her veiny hands on her lap. The snow picks up outside. It could be my imagination, but I think Candy is looking at the sky, like she’s searching for where the snow comes from.

  “I don’t know anything about this tape,” Ms. Anderson says. “But I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s only one explanation for why my brother could do that.”